UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


'     i 


PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  READINGS 


FOR  THE   USE   OF 


DRAMATIC  AND  READING  CLUBS, 


AND   FOR 


PUBLIC,  SOCIAL,  AND  SCHOOL  ENTERTAINMENT. 


DIALOGUES  AND  DRAMAS. 


EDITED   BY 

LEWIS   B.  MONROE. 


BOSTON: 
LEE  AND  SHEPARD,  PUBLISHERS. 

NEW  YORK: 
CHARLES   T.  DILLINGHAM. 


J '  '    '  J  > 


.  ...  ..     ..•  l\  I'l;, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tha  year  187S, 

BY    LEWIS    B.     MONROE, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 


«   s 

•  •  • 


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A' 

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co:n^te:n^ts 


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Vn  pagh 

>~^  A  Genius  for  the  Stage       Carey 1 

^    The  Little  Women's  Club    .    .   Adapted  from  L.  M.  Alcott   ...  3 

Idle  Hands "           "      T.  S.  Arthur  ...  6 

A  Fashionable  Call      ....         "          "     Harper's  Bazar  .    .  10 

A  Footman  Wanted Colman 11 

^  A  Romance  OF  THE  War    .    .    .  Adapted  from  ^^  Spirit  of 'IQ''' .    .  14 

_i  Trouble  about  Miss  Prettyman         "          "     Jerrold 21 

qMary  Maloney's  Philosophy ..25 

^  Recipe  for  Potato  Pudding      .    Adapted  from  F.  M.  Whicker  .    .  26 

-<- Nicholas  Nickleby  seeking  a  Situation      .    Dickens 32 

oi  Taking  the  Census Dr.  Valentine ...  36 

,  A  Prompt  Messenger Colman 37 

1^  Cross  Firing 40 

^  The  Will W.  B.  Fowle  ...  41 

1 

.1  Obtaining  Help  in  the  Country 44 

^Quarrel  of  Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsey  Pkig    Dickens 46 

^Sam  Weller's  Valentine Dickens 49 

Scene  from  the  Spanish  Gipsy George  Eliot   ...  53 

Waiting  for  an  Interview Colman 56 

Paul  Pry  at  Doubledot's Poole 62 

The  Doge's  Sentence    ....   Adapted  from  Byron 65 

'jThe  Rival  Orators 68 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood  .    .    .    Adapted  from  T.  Hood     ....  72 

A  Thousand  a  Yeak 79 

Where  there  's  a  Will  there  's  a  Way 82 

Keeping  in  Repair 86 

The  Clowns'  First  Rehearsal Shakespeare    ...  90 

The  Clowns'  Second  Rehearsal Shakespeare    ...  92 

III;.  Dumi;ljl;  a^;d  Mrs.  CoiiNBY  .    Adapted  from  Dickens      ....  95 


156063 


VI  CONTENTS. 

The  School  Committee W.  B.  Fowle  ...  99 

Mr.  Geegsburt  and  the  Deputation.    .    .    Dickens 106 

Scene  from  the  Love  Chase Knowles 109 

Mrs.    Wright's    Conversation    with    hek 

Irish  Acquaintance 112 

Armado  and  Moth .    Shakespeare    ...  116 

Cinderella;  or,  the  Glass  Slipper    .    .    .    Mrs.  Geo.  McDonald  117 

Scene  from  Virginius Knowles 129 

Tobias  Turniptop  in  General  Court  .    .    Subject  from  Haliburton  132 

CoRiOLANUS  AND  AuFiDius Shakespeare    .    .    .  141 

ScENf  FROM  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE   .    .    Shakespeare    .    .    .  143 

Expulsion  of  Catiline Croly 146 

Irish  Courtesy 149 

Behind  the  Scenes 151 

The  Irishman's  Lesson Oulton 157 

Eh!    What  is  it? Adapted 161 

Scene  from  "Still  Waters  Run  Deep"     .    Taylor 174 

Description  of  the  Chase Knowles 183 

My  New  Pittayatees  ....    Adapted  from  Hood 185 

A  Happy  Christmas Adapted 191 

St.  Philip  Neri  and  the  Youth 201 

Courtship  under  Difficulties 202 

The  Frenchman's  Malady 207 

An  Unsuccessful  Attempt  to  Raise  the 

Wind Dickens 208 

Dr.  Arnold's  Prescription Adapted 212 

Bound  for  Detroit 223 

Bill  Wainwright's  Adventure 224 

A  Family  Jar Adapted  from  L.  M.  Alcott  ...  226 

Crab  Village  Lyceum Adapted 234 

After  School,  What? 238 

The  Pickwick  Trial    ....    Adapted  from  Dickens 244 

Golden  Pippins Adapted 266 

Scene  from  Henry  IV Shakespeare    ...  274 

The  Pursuit ''Ladies'  Battle''    .  279 

A  Sea  of  Troubles Geo.  M.  Baker    .     .  298 

The  Truth-Speaker Adapted      ....  314 

Monsieur  Jacques ^'  Barnett     .    .    .  318 


PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 


A  GENIUS   FOR  THE  STAGE. 

"Patent,"  tlie  Lessee  and  Manager  of  a  Theatre,  is  applied  to  hy  a 
country  clown,  Dowlas,  for  an  engagement. 

PATENT.  Walk  in,  sir ;  your  servant,  sir,  your  servant. 
Have  you  any  particular  business  with  me  ] 

Dowlas.  Yes,  sir  ;  my  friends  have  lately  discovered  that 
I  have  a  genius  for  the  stage. 

Pat.  0,  you  would  be  a  player,  would  you,  sir?  Pray, 
sir,  did  you  ever  play  % 

Dow.    No,  sir  ;  but  I  flatter  myself — 

Pat.  I  hope  not,  sir ;  flattering  one's  self  is  the  very  worst 
of  hypocrisy. 

Dow.    You  '11  excuse  me,  sir. 

Pat.  Ay,  sir,  if  you  '11  excuse  me  for  not  flattering  you.  I 
always  speak  my  mind. 

Dow.    I  dare  say  you  will  like  my  manner,  sir. 

Pat.  No  manner  of  doubt,  sir,  —  I  dare  say,  I  shall.  — 
Pray,  sir,  with  which  of  the  ladies  are  you  in  lovel  {looking  round.) 

Dow.    In  love,  sir  !  —  ladies  ! 

Pat.    Ay,  sir,  ladies,  —  Miss  Comedy  or  Dame  Tragedy  ? 

Dow.    I  'm  vastly  fond  of  Tragedy,  sir. 

Pat.    Very  well,  sir ;  and  where  is  your  forte  % 

Dow.    Sir] 

Pat.    I  say,  sir,  what  is  your  department  1 

Dow.    Department  1     Do  you  mean  my  lodgings,  sir  ? 

Pat.  Your  lodgings,  sir?  no,  not  I;  ha,  ha,  ha!  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  what  department  you  would  wish  to  possess 
1  A 


2  PUBLIC  AND   PAELOR  DIALOGUES. 

in  the  tragic  walk,  —  the  sighing  lover,  the  furious  hero,  or 
the  sly  assassin. 

Dow.    Sir,  I  would  like  to  play  King  Richard  the  Third. 

Pat.  An  excellent  character  indeed,  —  a  very  good  char- 
acter ;  and  I  dare  say  you  will  play  it  vastly  well,  sir. 

Dow.    I  hope  you  '11  have  no  reason  to  complain,  sir. 

Pat.  I  hope  not.  Well,  sir,  have  you  got  any  favorite 
passage  ready  1 

Dow.    I  have  it  all  by  heart,  sir. 

Pat.    You  have,  sir,  have  you  ]    I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  you. 

Dow.    Hem  —  hem  —  hem  —  {clearing  his  throat). 

"  What !  will  the  aspii-ing  blood  of  Lancaster 
Sink  in  the  ground  —  I  thought  it  would  have  mounted. 
See  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  Kmg's  death ; 
Oh  !  may  such  purple  tears  be  always  shed 
For  those  who  wisli  the  downfall  of  our  house  ; 
If  there  be  any  spark  of  hfe  yet  remaiimig, 
DoAvn,  down  to  hell,  and  say  I  sent  thee  thither, 
I  that  have  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear." 

Pat.  Hold,  sir,  hold,  —  in  pity  hold  !  Za,  za,  za,  sir  — 
{mimicking  his  voice  and  manner)  —  sir  !  Why,  sir,  't  is  not  like 
humanity.  You  won't  find  me  so  great  a  barbarian  as  Rich- 
ard ;  you  said  he  had  neither  2nti/,  love,  nor  fear.  Now,  sir, 
you  will  find  that  I  am  possessed  of  all  these  feelings  for  you 
at  present,  —  I  pit?/  your  conceit,  I  love  to  speak  my  mind, 
and  —  I  fear  you  '11  never  make  a  player. 

Dow.    Do  you  think  so,  sir  1 

Pat.  Do  you  think  so,  sir  1  Yes,  I  know  so,  sir !  Now,  sir, 
only  look  at  yourself,  —  your  legs  more  awkward  than  a 
clown's ;  and  your  arms  dingle  dangle,  like  the  fins  of  a  dying 
turtle  !  {Mimics  him.)  'Pon  my  word,  sir,  't  will  never  do.  — 
Pray,  sir,  are  you  of  any  profession  ] 

Dow.    Yes,  sir,  a  shoemaker  ! 

Pat.  a  shoemaker !  an  excellent  business,  a  veiy  good 
business,  —  you  '11  get  more  by  that  than  by  playing,  —  you 
had  better  mind  your  waxed  ends  and  your  shop,  —  and  don't 
pester  me  any  more  with  your  Richard  and  your—  Za,  za, 
za.     This  is  a  genius  !  —  plague  upon  such  geniuses,  say  I. 


THE   LITTLE   WOMEN'S  PICKWICK  CLUB.  3 

THE   LITTLE  WOMEN'S   PICKWICK  CLUB. 

ADMISSION'  OF  A   NEW  MEMBER. 

Meo,  as  Pickwick ;  Jo,  as  Snodgrass ;   Beth,  as  Tujyman  ;  Amy,  as 
Winkle  ;  Laurie,  Die  new  mcinhcr,  as  Sam  JVcllcr. 

A  table,  with  the  President's  cJuiir  behind  it,  and  three  chairs  arranged 
before  it.  Club  badges,  ^narked  P.  C.  in  large  letters,  are  lying  on  tlie 
table.     The  members  enter  and  put  on  their  badges. 

MEG,  in  tlie  President's  cliair,  puts  on  a  pair  of  spectacles  without 
any  glasses,  raps  on  tlie  table,  and  hems.  The  Club  will 
please  come  to  oi'der.  {Stares  hard  at  Jo,  who  is  tilting  back  in  her 
chair,  till  she  arranges  herself  properly.)  I  shall  proceed  to  read 
from  the  "  Pickwick  Portfolio,"  as  appropriate  to  this  occa» 
siou,  the 

ANNIVEESARY  ODE. 

Again  we  meet  to  celebrate, 

With  badge  and  solemn  rite, 
Our  tifty-second  anniversary. 

In  Pickwick  Hall,  to-night. 

We  all  are  here  in  perfect  health. 
None  gone  from  our  small  band  ; 

Again  we  see  each  well-known  face. 
And  press  each  friendly  hand. 

Our  Pickwick,  always  at  his  post,  * 

With  reverence  we  greet. 
As,  spectacles  on  nose,  he  reads 

Our  well-filled  weekly  sheet. 

Although  ho  suffers  from  a  cold. 
We  joy  to  hear  him  speak,  ^ 

For  words  of  wisdom  from  him  fall, 
In  spite  of  croak  or  squeak. 

Old  six-foot  Snodgrass  looms  on  high. 

With  elephantine  grace. 
And  beams  u])on  the  company. 

With  brown  and  jovial  face. 


4  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Poetic  fire  lights  up  his  eye, 

He  struggles  'gainst  his  lot ; 
Behold  ambition  on  his  brow, 

And  on  his  nose  a  blot  ! 

Next  our  peaceful  Tupman  comes, 

So  rosy,  plump,  and  sweet. 
Who  chokes  with  laughter  at  the  puns. 

And  tumbles  off  his  seat. 

Prim  little  "Winkle,  too,  is  here, 

"With  every  hair  in  place, 
A  model  of  propriety, 

Though  he  hates  to  wash  his  face. 

The  year  is  gone,  we  still  unite 
'  To  joke  and  laugh  and  read. 

And  tread  the  path  of  literature 
That  doth  to  glory  lead. 

Long  may  our  paper  prosper  well. 

Our  club  unbroken  be, 
And  coming  years  their  blessings  pour 

On  the  useful,  gay  "P.  C." 

(Ajyplause.) 

Any  business  that  may  properly  come  before  the  Club  ia 
now  in  order, 

Jo  (rising).  Mr.  President  and  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  propose 
the  admission  of  a  new  member,  —  one  who  highly  deserves  the 
honor,  would  be  deeply  grateful  for  it,  and  would  add  im- 
mensely to  the  spirit  of  the  club,  the  literary  value  of  our 
paper,  and  be  no  end  jolly  and  nice.  I  propose  Mr.  Theodore 
Lawrence  as  an  honorary  member  of  the  P.  C.  Come  now, 
do  have  him  !      (Laughter  from  the  others.) 

Meg.  We  '11  put  it  to  vote.  All  in  favor  of  this  motion 
please  to  manifest  it  by  saying  "Ay."  (Jo  and  Beth  resjjond 
"Ay.")    Contrary-minded  say  "  No."    (Meg  awe?  Amy  say  "iVb.") 

Amy  (with  great  elegance).  We  don't  wish  any  boys  ;  they  only 
joke  and  bounce  about.  This  is  a  lady's  club,  and  we  wish 
to  be  private  and  proper. 

Meg.  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  laugh  at  our  paper,  and  make  fun 
of  us  afterward. 


THE  LITTLE   WOMEN'S   PICKWICK   CLUB.  5 

Jo  (bouncing  up  very  much  in  earnest).  Sir,  I  give  you  my  word 
as  a  gentleman,  Laurie  won't  do  anything  of  tlie  sort.  He 
likes  to  write,  and  he  '11  give  a  tone  to  our  contributions,  and 
keep  us  from  being  sentimental,  don't  you  see  ] 

Beth.    Yes ;  we  ought  to  do  it,  even  if  we  are  afraid.     I 
say  he  may  come,  and  his  grandpa,  too,  if  he  likes.     (Jo  leaves 
her  seat,  and  comes  and  shakes  hands  with  Beth  approvingly. ) 
-     Jo.    Now,  then,  vote  again.     Everybody  remember  it 's  our 
Laurie,  and  say  "  Ay  !  " 

Beth,  Meg,  and  Amy.    Ay  !  ay  !  ay  ! 

Jo.  Good  !  bless  you  !  Now,  as  there  's  nothing  like  "  tak- 
ing time  by  the  fetlock,''  as  Winkle  characteristically  observes, 
allow  me  to  present  the  new  member.  {Throws  open  tJic  door  of 
a  closet,  and  displays  Laurie  sitting  on  a  rag-bag,  twinkling  with  sup- 
pressed  laughter. ) 

Beth,  Meg,  and  Amy.  You  rogue  !  you  traitor  !  Jo,  how 
could  you  '?  (Jo  leads  Laurie  forth,  puts-  a  badge  on  him,  and  jives 
him  a  cliair.) 

Meg.  The  coolness  of  you  two  rascals  is  amazing.  {Trying 
to  frown.) 

Laurie  (rising  with  a  graceful  salutation  to  the  Chair).  Mr.  Presi- 
dent and  ladies,  —  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen,  —  allow  me  to 
introduce  myself  as  Sam  Weller,  the  very  humble  servant  of 
the  club. 

Jo.  Good,  good  !  {Pounding  with  the  handle  of  an  old  warming- 
pan,  on  which  she  leans.) 

Laurie.  My  faithful  friend  and  noble  patron,  who  has  so 
flatteringly  presented  me,-  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  the  base 
stratagem  of  to-night.  I  planned  it,  and  she  only  gave  in 
after  lots  of  teasing. 

Jo.  Come  now,  don't  lay  it  all  on  yourself;  you  know  I 
proposed  the  cupboard. 

Laurie.  Never  you  mind  what  she  says.  I  'ra  the  wretch 
that  did  it,  sir.  But,  on  my  honor,  I  never  will  do  so  again,  and 
henceforth  dewote  myself  to  the  interest  of  this  immortal  club. 

Jo.  Hear  !  hear  !  (Clashing  tlie  lid  of  the  warming-pan  like  a 
cymbal.) 

Amy  and  Beth.    Go  on,  go  on  !      (Tlie  President  bows  benignly.) 


6  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Laurie.  I  merely  wish  to  say  that,  as  a  slight  token  of  my 
gratitude  for  the  honor  done  me,  and  as  a  means  of  promoting 
friendly  i-elations  between  adjoining  nations,  I  have  set  up  a 
post-office  in  the  hedge  in  the  lower  corner  of  the  garden ;  a 
fine,  spacious  building,  with  padlocks  on  the  doors,  and  every 
convenience  for  the  mails,  —  also  the  females,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression.  It 's  the  old  marten-house  ;  but  I  've 
stopped  up  the  door,  and  made  the  roof  open,  so  it  will  hold 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  save  our  valuable  time.  Letters, 
manuscripts,  books,  and  bundles  can  be  passed  in  there  ;  and, 
as  each  nation  has  a  key,  it  will  be  uncommonly  nice,  I  fancy. 
Allow  me  to  present  the  club  key,  and,  with  many  thanks  for 
your  favor,  take  my  seat.     {Great  applause.) 

Meg.    I  propose  three  cheers  for  the  new  member. 

Meg,  Jo,  Beth,  and  Amy.    Hun-ah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Meg.   The  meeting  is  adjourned. 


IDLE   HANDS. 

Mr.  Thornton  ;  Mrs.  Thornton  ;  Effie,  their  daughter. 

Scene,  a  room  in  a  dwelling-house.     Mrs.  Thornton,   sitting  at  a 

sewing-machine. 

MRS.    THORNTON    {Ming  her  foot    rest  on   the   treadle,   and 
straightening  herself  up).     0,  dear  !     This  pain  in  my  side 
is  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Mr.  Thornton  {entering  unperceived).     Then  why  do  you  sit 
killing  yourself  there  1 

Mrs.  T.    What 's  the  matter  1   Why  do  you  look  so  serious  1 

Mr.  T.    Because  I  feel  serious. 

Mrs.  T.    Has  anything  gone  wrong  1 

Mr.  T.  {with  some  impatience).   Things  are  wrong  all  the  time. 

Effie  enters  unobserved. 
Mrs.  T.    In  your  business  ? 

Mr.  T.    No,  nothing  especially  out  of  the  way  there ;  but 
it  's  all  wrong  here  at  home. 


IDLE  HANDS.  7 

INIrs.  T.  I  don't  understand  you,  Harvey.  What  is  wrong 
at  home,  pray  1 

Mr.  T.  Wrong  for  you  to  sit,  in  pain  and  exhaustion,  over 
that  sewing-machine  while  an  idle  daughter  lounges  over  a 
novel  in  the  parlor.     That 's  what  I  wished  to  say. 

Mrs.  T.  It  is  n't  Effie's  fault.  She  often  asks  to  help  me. 
But  I  can't  see  the  child  put  down  to  household  drudgery. 
Her  time  will  come  soon  enough.  Let  her  have  a  little  ease 
and  comfort  while  she  may. 

Mr.  T.  If  we  said  that  of  our  sons,  and  acted  on  the  word, 
what  efficient  men  they  would  make  for  the  world's  work, 
how  admirably  furnished  they  would  be  for  life's  trials  and 
duties  !  You  are  wrong  in  this,  —  all  wrong.  If  Effie  is  a 
right-minded  girl,  she  will  have  more  true  enjoyment  in  the 
consciousness  that  she  is  lightening  her  mother's  burdens, 
than  it  is  possible  to  obtain  from  the  finest  novel  ever  writ- 
ten. It  is  a  poor  compliment  to  Effie 'to  suppose  that  she  can 
be  content  to  sit  with  idle  hands  while  her  mother  is  worn  down 
with  toil  beyond  her  strength.     Hester,  it  must  not  be  ! 

Effie  (ivitk  a  quick  and  firm  voice,  at  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  T.  start). 
And  it  shall  not  be  !  It  shall  not  be,  father.  It  is  n't  all  my 
faidt.  I  've  asked  mother  a  great  many  times  to  let  me  help 
her,  but  she  always  puts  me  off,  and  says  it  's  easier  to  do  a 
thing  herself  than  to  show  another.  Maybe  I  am  a  little  dull. 
But  every  one  has  to  learn,  you  know.  Mother  did  n't  get 
her  hand  in  fairly  with  that  sewing-machine  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  and  I  'm  certain  it  would  n't  take  me  any  longer.  If 
she  'd  only  teach  me  how  to  use  it,  I  could  help  her  a  great 
deal.     And,  indeed,  father,  I  'm  willing  ! 

Mr.  T.  Spoken  in  the  right  spirit,  my  daughter.  Depend 
upon  it,  Effie,  an  idle  girlhood  is  not  the  way  to  a  cheerful 
womanhood.  Learn  and  do,  now,  the  very  things  that  will  be 
rcfiuired  of  you  in  after  years,  and  then  you  will  have  acquired 
facility.  Habit  and  skill  will  make  easy  what  might  come 
hard,  and  be  felt  as  very  burdensome. 

Mrs.  T.  And  you  would  have  her  abandon  all  self-improve- 
ment ]     Give  up  music,  reading,  society  — 


8  PUBLIC   AND   PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mr.  T.  There  are  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  hours  of  each  day 
in  which  mind  or  hands  should  be  rightly  employed.  Now, 
let  us  see  how  Effie  is  spending  these  long  and  evei'-recurring 
periods  of  time.  Come,  my  daughter,  sit  down.  We  have 
this  subject  fairly  before  us.  It  is  one  of  life-long  importance 
to  you,  and  should  be  well  considered.  How  is  it  in  regard 
to  the  employment  of  your  time  ]  Take  yesterday,  for  in- 
stance.    How  was  it  spent  ]     You  rose  at  seven,  I  think. 

Effie.    Yes,  sir  ;  I  came  down  just  as  the  breakfast-bell  rang. 

Mr.  T.  And  your  mother  was  up  at  half  past  five,  I  know, 
and  complained  of  feeling  so  weak  that  she  could  hardly  dress 
herself.  But,  for  all  this,  she  was  at  work  till  breakfast-time. 
Now,  if  you  had  i-isen  at  six,  and  shared  your  mother's  work 
until  seven,  you  would  have  taken  an  hour  from  her  day's 
burdens,  and  certainly  lost  nothing  from  your  music,  self- 
improvement,  or  social  intercourse.  How  was  it  after  break- 
fast 1     How  was  the  morning  spent? 

Effie.    I  practised  on  the  piano  an  hour  after  breakfast. 

Mr.  T.    So  far,  so  good.     What  then  ] 

Effie.    I  read  "  The  Cavalier  "  until  eleven  o'clock. 

Mr.  T.  (shaking  his  head).  After  eleven,  how  was  the  time 
spent ] 

Effie.    I  dressed  myself,  and  went  out. 

Mr.  T.    At  what  time  did  you  go  out  1 

Effie.    A  little  after  twelve  o'clock. 

Mr.  T.    An  hour  was  spent  in  dressing  ? 

Effie.   Yes,  sir. 

Mr.  T.    Where  did  you  go  ? 

Effie.  I  called  for  Helen  Boj'^d,  and  we  took  a  walk  down 
Broadway. 

Mr.  T.  And  came  home  just  in  time  for  dinner  ]  I  think 
I  met  you  at  the  door. 

Effie.    Yes,  sir. 

Mr.  T.    How  was  it  after  dinner  1 

Effie.  I  slept  from  three  till  five,  and  then  took  a  bath 
and  dressed  myself.  From  six  until  teatime  I  sat  at  the 
parlor  window. 


IDLE   HANDS.  9 

Mr.  T.   And  after  tea  1 

Effie.   Read  "The  Cavalier"  until  I  went  to  bed. 

Mr.  T.    At  what  hour  ] 

Effie.    Eleven  o'clock. 

Mr.  T.  Now  we  can  make  up  the  account.  You  rose  at 
seven,  and  retired  at  eleven,  -^  sixteen  hours.  And  from  your 
o^Ti  account  of  the  day,  but  a  single  hour  was  spent  in  any- 
thing useful,  —  that  was  the  hour  at  your  piano.  Now,  your 
mother  was  up  at  half  past  five,  and  went  to  bed,  from  sheer 
Inability  to  sit  at  her  work  any  longer,  at  half  past  nine,  —  six- 
teen hours  for  her,  also.  —  How  much  reading  did  you  do  ia 
that  time]     (To  Mrs.  T.) 

Mrs.  T.  Reading  !  Don't  talk  to  me  of  reading  /  I  've  no 
time  to  read  ! 

Mr.  T.  And  yet  you  were  always  fond  of  reading,  and  I 
can  remember  when  no  day  went  by  without  an  hoiu'  or  two 
passed  at  your  books.     Did  you  lie  down  after  dinner  ] 

Mrs.  T.    Of  course  not. 

Mr.  T.  Nor  take  a  pleasant  walk  down  Broadway  1  Nor 
^it  at  the  parlor  window  with  Effie  1  Now,  the  case  is  a  very 
plain  one.  You  spend  from  fourteen  to  sixteen  hours  every 
day  in  hard  work,  while  Effie,  taking  yesterday  as  a  sample, 
spends  about  the  same  time  in  what  is  little  better  than  idle- 
ness. Suppose  a  new  adjustment  were  to  take  place,  and  Effie 
were  to  be  usefully  employed  in  helping  you  eight  hours  of 
each  day,  she  would  still  have  eight  hours  left  for  self-improve- 
ment and  recreation,  and  you,  relieved  from  your  present  over- 
tasked condition,  might  get  back  a  portion  of  the  health  and 
spirits  of  which  these  too  heavy  household  duties  have  robbed 
you. 

Effie.  Father,  I  never  saw  things  in  this  light.  Why 
have  n't  you  talked  to  me  before  1  I  've  often  felt  as  if  I  'd 
like  to  help  mother.  But  she  never  gives  me  anything  to 
do ;  and  if  I  offijr  to  help  her,  she  says,  "  You  can't  do 
it,"  or,  "  I  'd  rather  do  it  myself"  Indeed,  it  is  n't  all  my 
fault  ! 

Mr.  T.   It  may  not  have  been  in  the  past,  Effie,  but  it  cerr 
!• 


10  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

tainly  will  be  in  the  future,  unless  there  is  a  new  arrangement 
of  things.  It  is  a  false  social  sentiment  that  lets  daughters 
become  idlers,  while  mothers,  fathers,  and  sons  take  up  the 
daily  burden  of  work,  and  bear  it  through  all  the  busy  hours. 
Effie.  I  see  that  you  are  right,  father.  And  I  already 
begin  to  feel  a  new  self-respect  at  the  thought  of  being  useful 
to  mother,  to  you,  and  to  myself. 


A  FASHIONABLE  CALL. 

Mes.  Prattle  ;  Mrs.  Tattle. 

MRS.  TATTLE.    I  heard  it ! 
Mrs.  Prattle.    Who  told  you  1 
Tat.    Her  friend  Q). 
Prat.    You  don't  say  ! 
Tat.    'T  is  dreadful ! 
Prat.    'T  is  awful  ! 
Tat.    Don't  tell  it,  I  pray  ! 

Prat.    Good  gracious  ! 
Tat.    Who  'd  think  it  1 
Prat.    Well,  well,  well ! 
Tat.    Dear  me  !    • 
Prat.    I  've  had  mp 
Suspicions. 
Tat.  And  I,  too,  you  see  ! 

Prat.    I  'm  going. 
Tat.    Don't !     Stay,  love  ! 
Prat.    I  can't. 
Tat.    I  'm  forlorn  ! 
Prat.    Farewell,  dear ! 
Tat.    Good  by,  sweet  !  — - 

I  'm  glad  she  's  gone  ! 


A  FOOTMAN  WANTED.  11 


A   FOOTMAN  WANTED. 

Depxtty  Bull  ;    Thomas  ;   Looney   Mactwolter  ;   John   Lump. 
Deputy  Bull  at  home.    Enter  Thomas. 

THOMAS.     Here 's  a  man,  sir,  come  after  the  footman's 
place. 

Bull.  I  hope  he  is  civiler  than  the  last  fellow.  Does  he 
look  modest  1 

Thomas.    0  yes,  sir ;  he 's  an  Irishman. 

Bull.  Well,  we  are  used  to  them  in  the  Bull  family.  Let 
me  see  him.  (Exit  Thomas.)  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  keep 
a  servant  at  last.  They  are  all  so  confounded  saucy  to  me, 
because  I  have  been  a  grocer. 

Enter  LooNEY  Mactwoltee. 
So  you  want  a  place  1 

Loo.    You  may  say  that,  with  your  own  ugly  mouth. 

Bull.    My  ugly  mouth !  —  You  have  been  in  service  before  1 

Loo.    Does  a  duck  swim  1 

Bull.    Whom  have  you  lived  with  1 

Loo.  I  lived  with  the  Mactwolters  nineteen  years,  and 
then  they  turned  me  off. 

Bull.    The  Mactwolters  !     Why  did  they  turn  you  off? 

Loo.   They  went  dead. 

Bull.  That's  an  awkward  way  of  discharging  a  servant. 
Who  were  they  1 

Loo.  My  own  beautiful  father  and  most  beautiful  mother. 
They  died  of  a  whiskey  fever,  and  left  myself,  Looney  Mac- 
twolter, heir  to  their  estate. 

Bull.    They  had  an  estate,  it  seems  % 

Loo.    Yes ;  they  had  a  pig. 

Bull.  Umph  !  But  they  died,  you  say,  when  you  were 
nineteen.     What  have  you  been  doing  ever  since  ? 

Loo.    I  'm  a  physicianer. 

Bull.    The  deuce  you  are  ! 

Loo.    Yes ;  I  'm  a  cow-doctor. 

Bull.    And  what  brought  you  here  ? 


12  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Loo.  Hay-making.  I  've  a  fork  below  ;  hire  me,  then  I  '11 
have  a  knife  to  it,  and  prettily  I  '11  toss  about  your  beef,  Mr. 
Bull. 

Bull.  I  don't  doubt  you.  This  fellow  would  ram  a  cart- 
load of  chuck-steaks  down  his  throat  with  a  paving-rod. 
What  can  you  do  as  a  footman  1     Can  you  clean  plate  1 

Loo.  Clean  a  plate  !  Botheration,  man  !  would  you  hire 
me  for  your  kitchen-maid  1  I  can  dirty  one  with  anybody  in 
the  parish. 

Bull.  Do  you  think  now,  Looney,  you  could  contrive  to 
beat  a  coat  1 

Loo.    Faith  can  I,  in  the  Connaught  fashion. 

Bull.    How  's  that  ? 

Loo.  With  a  man  in  it.  {Assumes  a  hoxmg  attitude.)  Och  !  let 
me  alone  for  dusting  your  ould  jacket,  Mr.  Bull. 

Bull.   The  deuce  take  you,  I  say  ! 

Loo.  Be  aisy,  and  I  '11  warrant  we  '11  agree.  Give  me  what 
I  ax,  and  we  '11  never  tumble  out  about  the  wages. 

Re-enter  Thomas. 

Thomas.  Here 's  another  man  come  after  the  place,  I 
believe,  sir. 

Bull.    Another  man  !     Let  me  see  him.  [Exit  Thomas. 

Loo.    Faith,    now,    you'll    bother    yourself    betwixt    us. 

You  '11  be  like  a  cat  in  a  tripe-shop,  and  not  know  where  to 

choose. 

Enter  John  Lump. 

Lump.    Be  you  Mr.  Bull,  zur  ? 

Bull.    Yes ;  I  am  the  deputy. 

Lump.  Oh !  if  you  are  na'  but  the  deputy,  I  '11  bide  here 
till  I  see  Mr.  Bull  himsen. 

Bull.    Blockhead  !     I  am  himself,  —  Mr.  Deputy  Bull. 

Loo.  Arrah !  can't  you  see,  man,  that  this  ugly  ould  gen- 
tleman is  himself  1 

Bull.    Hold  your  tongue.  —  What 's  your  name  1 

Lump.   John. 

Bull.    John  what  % 

Lump.    No,  no,  not  John  What,  but  John  Lump. 


A   FOOTMAN   WANTED.  13 

Bull.    And  what  do  you  waut,  John  Lump  1 

Lump.  Why,  I  'se  come  here,  zur  —  But  as  we  be  upon  a 
bit  o'  business,  I  '11  let  you  hear  the  long  and  short  on 't. 
(Drawing  a  chair  and  sitting  down.)  I 'se  comed  here,  Zur,  to  hire 
mysen  for  your  sarvant. 

Bull.  Ah  !  but  you  don't  expect,  I  perceive,  to  have  any 
standing  wages. 

Loo.  (drawing  a  chair  and  sitting  down).  Are  n't  you  a  pretty 
spalpeen,  now,  to  squat  yourself  down  there  in  the  presence 
of  ^Ii".  Deputy  Bull  ] 

Bull.    Now  here  's  a  couple  of  scoundrels  ! 

Loo.  Don't  be  in  a  passion  with  him.  Mind  how  I  '11  laru 
him  politeness. 

Bull.    Get  up  directly,  you  villain,  or  — 

Loo.  (complimenting).  Not  before  Mr.  Lump.  See  how  I  '11 
give  him  the  polish. 

Bull.  If  you  don't  get  up  directly,  I  '11  squeeze  your  heads 
together  like  two  figs  in  a  jar. 

Lump  (rising).  0,  then,  it  be  unmannerly  for  a  footman 
to  rest  himsen,  I  suppose  ! 

Loo.  (rising).  To  be  sure  it  is ;  no  servant  has  the  bad 
manners  to  sit  before  his  master,  but  the  coachman. 

Lump.  I  ax  your  pardon,  zur ;  I  'se  na'  but  a  poor  York- 
shire lad,  travelled  up  from  Doncaster  Races ;  I  'se  simple, 
but  I  'se  willing  to  learn. 

Bull.  Simple,  and  willing  to  learn  1  Two  qualities,  Master 
Lump,  which  will  answer  my  purpose.  [Lump  retires. 

Loo.  Mind  what  you're  after  going  to  do,  Mr.  Deputy 
Bull.  If  you  hire  this  fellow  from  the  Donkey  races,  when 
Looney  Mactwolter  is  at  your  elbow,  I  '11  make  free  to  say, 
you  're  making  a  complete  Judy  of  yourself 

Bull,  You  do  make  free  with  a  vengeance.  Now  I  '11  make 
free  to  say,  Get  out  of  my  house,  you  impudent  cow-doctor  ! 

Loo.  You  're  no  scholard,  or  you  'd  larn  how  to  bemean 
yourself  to  a  physicianer.  Arrah  !  is  n't  a  cow-doctor  as 
good  as  you,  you  ould  figman  ] 

Bull.  Old  figman  !  This  rascal,  too,  quizzing  my  origin  ! 
Got  down  stairs,  or  — * 


14  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Loo.  Don't  come  over  me  with  the  pride  of  your  staircase, 
for  had  n't  my  father  a  comfortable  ladder  to  go  up  and  down 
stairs  with  1  Take  Mr.  Lump  into  yonr  dirty  sarvice,  and 
next  time  I  'm  after  meeting  him  I  '11  thump  Mr.  Lump,  or 
Mr.  Lump  shall  thump  Mr.  Looney  Mactwolter. 


A  ROMANCE  OF   THE  WAR. 

Miss  Floea  Fayaway  ;  Miss  Pkim  ;  Tarbox. 

Flora's   drawing-room.     Flora  seated,  absorbed  in  reading  a  letter. 

Enter  Miss  Prim. 

PRIM.  Miss  Flora  !  the  cook  has  given  warning !  Says 
she  wants  a  wider  range,  and  means  to  try  California  ! 

Flora.  0,  Miss  Prim,  don't  trouble  me  about  cooks 
now  ! 

Prim  (excited).     But  what  are  we  to  do  ? 

Flora.  0,  do  without  eating !  To-day,  of  all  days,  I 
don't  want  to  be  worried. 

Prim.    Why,  is  it  to-day  that  you  expect  Mr.  Tarbox  1 

Flora.  Yes ;  but  I  wish,  Miss  Prim,  you  would  n't  pro- 
nounce his  name  that  way.  Can't  you  say  "  Mr.  Tarbox  " 
softly  1      It  sounds  much  prettier. 

Prim  {sitting  down  to  her  sewing).  Well,  it  is  n't  a  very  pretty 
name  anyway.  However,  I  '11  try.  By  what  train  do  you 
anticipate  Mr.  Ta-arbox  1 

Flora.  His  letter  didn't  say.  0,  Miss  Prim,  how  little 
I  thought,  when,  just  for  fun,  I  pinned  my  name  and  address 
on  a  pair  of  blue  woollen  socks  for  the  Sanitary,  —  how  little 
I  thought  that  my  fate  was  rolled  up  in  them ! 

Prim.  Yes,  it 's  fortunate  that  such  a  delightful  person  as 
you  say  Mr.  Tarbox  is  should  have  been  the  one  to  get  them. 
He  wrote  to  you  at  once,  did  n't  he  ? 

Flora.  0  yes !  I  never  shall  foi'get  my  feel'ngs  when  I 
received  his  first  letter,  dated  Camp  Stanton.     I  couldn't 


A  ROMANCE   OF   THE   WAR.  15 

help  answering,  —  it  was  so  touching.  That  was  three  months 
ago,  and  we  have  corresponded  ever  since  ! 

Prim.  It 's  strange  what  luck  young  girls  always  have  in 
such  matters,  to  be  sure  !  It  shows  what  fools  men  are. 
They  overlook  women  of  matured  mind  and  experience,  to 
run  after  any  chit  of  a  girl,  just  because  she  has  a  pretty 
face  ! 

Flora.  Well,  Miss  Prim,  he  did  n't  run  after  nij/  face,  for 
you  know  he  has  never  seen  it. 

Prim.  No,  and  for  my  part,  I  think  it  very  douhtful  how 
such  a  match  will  turn  out.  Do  you  know  anything  of  his 
position  or  antecedents] 

Flora.  No,  nothing,  —  and  that 's  just  what  makes  our 
engagement  so  delightfully  odd  and  romantic.  We  know 
each  other  only  through  our  letters,  —  and  0,  Miss  Prim,  he 
does  write  such  lovely  letters!  Did  you  ever  have  any  love- 
letters.  Miss  Prim] 

Prim.  Ahem,  —  no.  It  so  happened  that  every  one  of  my 
admirers  offered  himself  by  word  of  mouth,  and  was  rejected 
immediately. 

Flora.    What  a  pity  ! 

Prim.  And  have  n't  you  told  this  Mr.  Tarbox  anything 
about  your  social  position  either  ]  Does  he  think  it  "  delight- 
fully odd  and  romantic"  to  be  kept  in  the  dark,  or  does  he 
know  that  you  are  an  orphan,  and  your  own  mistress  1 

Flora.  I  told  him  nothing  whatever.  (Aside.)  I  wanted 
him  to  love  me  for  myself 

Prim.    Are  you  quite  sure  he  is  not  aware  that  you  are  rich  ? 

Flora.  0  Miss  Prim,  you  don't  suppose  I  wrote  about 
such  things  as  money  ]  I  had  n't  room.  I  never  wrote  more 
than  six  or  eight  pages  crossed  at  a  time. 

Prim.    He  's  nothing  but  a  private,  is  ho  ? 

Flora  {with  enthusiasm).  No,  and  that 's  all  the  more  noble 
in  him !  Not  to  wait  to  be  made  Major-General,  or  Com- 
mander-in-Chief, as  I  know  he  deserves,  but  to  volunteer  at 
once  to  defend  his  country,  even  in  the  ranks  !  I  've  not  the 
least  doubt  that  he  left  a  princely  home,  adorned  with  every- 


16  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

tiling  that  makes  life  beautiful,  at  his  country's  call !  When  I 
think  of  such  devotion,  my  heart  beats,  my  cheeks  burn  — 

Prim  (rising).  Well,  Miss  Fayaway,  I  sincerely  hope  you 
may  be  haj^py.  But  if  you  want  my  candid  opinion,  I  think 
you  would  be  more  sensible  if  you  were  not  in  such  a  hurry, 
but  were  to  wait  till  you  are  forty  or  forty-five  years  of 
age,  and  have  some  experience,  before  you  think  of  matri- 
mony !  {Exit. 

Flora  {done).  How  disagreeable  Miss  Prim  is  sometimes, 
to  be  sure  !  She  always  seems  annoyed  when  she  hears  of 
any  one  going  to  be  married.  And  asking  such  tiresome 
questions,  too,  about  money,  and  position,  and  antecedents, 
—  things  that  are  not  of  the  slightest  consequence!  Ah! 
there  'd  be  no  need  of  asking  that,  if  she  had  ever  seen  one 
of  his  dear  letters!  (Takes  out  letter  and  reads.)  "When  yoiur 
lovely  image  floats  before  the  mind's  eye  of  your  adorer,  he 
feels  that  for  the  unspeakable  bliss  of  your  smile  he  would 
gladly  sacrifice  his  life  ! "  Any  one  could  see  at  once  that 
this  was  written  by  a  person  of  the  most  exquisite  refinement 
of  feeling,  with  the  fire  and  imagination  of  a  poet !  (Kisses 
letter  and  puts  it  near  her  heart.)  I  should  be  perfectly  happy  if  it 
were  not  for  his  name !  How  I  do  wish  it  was  n't  Tarbos  ! 
But  then  I  've  no  doubt  he  has  a  lovely  Christian  name,  — 
one  suited  to  his  noble  self,  —  and  of  course  I  shall  call  him 
by  that.  He  always  signs  "  H.  J.  Tarbox,"  —  "  H  "  stands 
for  Herbert,  —  O,  I  hope  it  is  Herbert !  I  know  it 's  Herbert  ! 
{Bell  rings.)  Hark  !  there 's  a  ring  !  Perhaps  it 's  he  !  How 
my  heart  beats  !  (Flies  to  the  window.)  0  no  !  it 's  not  Her- 
bert, it's  a  very  common-looking  person,  —  an  expressman, 
I  should  say. 

Enter  Tarbox,  in  private's  uniform,  with  light  blue  overcoat,  very  shabby. 

Tarbox.  Momin',  marm.  J  want  to  see  Miss  Flora  Fayaway. 

Flora  (coldly).     I  am  Miss  Fayaway. 

Tarbox.  Be  ye  1  Jerewsalem  !  I  'd  no  notion  you  was 
sich  a  highflyer.  Wal,  my  lovely  gal,  here  's  your  soldier, 
tired  of  war's  alarms. 


A  ROMANCE   OF   THE  WAR.  17 

Flora.    What  —  what  do  you  mean  1 

Tarbox.  Mean  1  Why,  ain't  I  the  feller  you  Ve  been 
writin'  to  these  three  months'?  My  name's  Hezekiah  J. 
Tarbox,  at  yer  sarvice;  come  back  to  marry  you,  accord  in' 
to  agreement. 

Flora  (aside).  0  heavens  !  what  shall  I  do?  Engaged  to 
this  horrid  creature  !  It 's  impossible  !  I  don't  believe  it ! 
(Aloud.)     Sir,  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  mistake. 

Tarbox.  Mistake  1  Not  a  mite.  Did  n't  you  jest  tell  me 
you  was  Miss  Fayaway  1 

Flora.  It 's  quite  impossible  that  you  ever  wrote  those 
lettei*s.     You  don't  sound  like  them  ! 

Tarbox.  Lord  bless  you,  you  don't  suppose  I  got  all  that 
stuff  out  of  my  own  head,  do  yerl  I  bought  a  "Complete 
Letter- Writer,"  price  62|  cents,  second-hand,  and  copied  off 
the  love-letters  in  reg'lar  succession.       I  've  got  it  in  my 

pocket  now.      Like  to  see  it  1      ( Takes  out  shabby  book  and  turns  over 

leaves.)  Let 's  see  ....  No.  6  .  .  .  .  that 's  called  "  Formal 
Declaration,"  —  after  that  they  keep  pilin'  up  the  agony, 
don't  theyl  There,  here's  the  last  one  I  copied.  (Reads.) 
"When  your  lovely  image  floats  before  the  mind's  eye  of 
your  adorer,"  —  and  a  lot  more. 

Flora  (aside,  tearing  the  letter  from  her  heart).  The  very  letter  I 
was  kissing  just  now  !      (Flings  it  in  the  fire.) 

Tarbox.  It 's  pretty  lucky  I  got  my  discharge  when  I  did, 
for  I  'd  got  as  far  as  No.  11,  —  and  there 's  only  thirteen 
on  'em.  Wal,  we  've  done  with  all  that  rubbish  now.  (Looks 
around.)  Fixed  up  pretty  slick  here.  Pictures,  —  pianner- 
forty.     Where  are  the  old  folks  % 

Flora.    The  old  folks  ? 

Tarbox.    Yes,  —  yer  father  and  mother. 

Flora.    I  am  an  orphan,  sir.     I  am  alone  in  the  world. 

Tarbox  {sitting  down).     Du  tell ! 

Flora  (standing).     And  you,  —  where  is  your  home  ? 

Tarbox.  I  live  in  Skowhegan,  Maine.  I  've  got  a  little 
from  down  there.  Pray,  miss,  air  you  acquainted  with  butter 
and  cheese  makin'  'i 


18  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Flora.    No,  sir,  I  am  not. 

Tarbox.    D'  ye  understand  fattenin'  pigs  1 

Flora.  No,  indeed  I  do  not,  Mr.  Tarbox,  and  I  am  sur- 
prised at  your  asking  such  a  question  ! 

Tarbox.  Wal,  what  can  ye  do  then  ]  What  d'  ye  'stow 
yer  time  on  1     Can't  yer  do  no  kind  o'  work  1 

Flora.    Certainly,  crochet  and  worsted  work. 

Tarbox.    Wal,  what  else "? 

Flora.  0,  I  play  and  sing,  and  make  calls,  and  play  cro- 
quet, and  in  the  evening  I  go  to  the  opera,  unless  there  is  a 
party. 

Tarbox.  We  don't  do  none  o'  them  things  down  to  Skow- 
hegan. 

Flora.  No,  of  course  there  are  no  amusements  in  such  a 
place  as  that ! 

Tarbox.  I  bet  you  !  In  winter  we  have  quiltin'  frolics,  — 
and  spring  and  fall  there  's  maple-candy  scrapes  and  parin' 
bees,  —  and  we  go  to  meetin'  all  the  year  round. 

Enter  Miss  Prim. 

Flora  [confused).     My  friend,  Miss  Prim,  this  is  Mr.  — 

Tarbox.   Tarbox,  marm.     Hezekiah  J.,  at  your  sarvice. 

Prim.  Indeed !  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir.  You  have 
lately  returned  from  the  army,  I  believe  1  (Sits  down  near 
Takbox  ;  Flora  sinks  into  a  chair  behind  them.) 

Tarbox.  Yes,  marm.  I  got  kinder  rheumaticky  down 
there  to  Washington  City,  —  all  doubled  up,  —  and  the  sur- 
geon of  our  regiment  said  I  warn't  no  good  anyway,  and  might 
as  well  come  home. 

Prim.  We  girls  feel  a  deep  interest  in  our  brave  defenders. 
Tell  us  of  your  sufferings. 

Tarbox.  Wal,  marm,  I  was  orfle  sea-sick  on  the  Sound, 
both  goin'  and  comin'. 

Prim.    0,  I  did  n't  mean  that.     I  meant  your  dangers. 

Tarbox.  Wal,  twice  I  come  plaguy  near  shootin'  myself 
with  my  own  gun. 

Flora  (aside).     I  wish  he  had ! 


A  ROMANCE   OF   THE   WAR.  19 

Prim.  I  did  n't  mean  that,  either.  Tell  us  of  the  camp,  — 
the  midnight  attack,  and  the  hand-to-hand  conflict  ! 

Tabbox.  Wal,  as  fur  the  camp,  I  d'  know  as  I  did  more 
nor  cook  my  vittals,  —  and  poor  enough  they  was,  —  if  it 
had  n't  a  been  for  the  sutler's  pies,  I  should  a  been  a'raost 
starved.  And  when  I  was  n't  eatin'  them  I  was  whittliu'  or 
playin'  checkers  or  dominoes  with  the  fellers,  —  leastways 
when  we  was  thru'  with  that  air  darned  drillin'. 

Prim.    But  the  battles  1  —  the  deeds  of  arms  1 

Tarbox.  Can't  tell  ye  nothin'  about  them.  I  got  took 
down  with  the  rheumatiz,  and  left,  — jest  as  the  fightin'  was 
goin'  to  begin.     I  had  the  luck  on  't,  I  tell  you  ! 

Flora  {starting  up).  What !  were  you  not  disappointed  to 
be  denied  the  opportunity  to  fight  for  your  country  after  you 
had  volunteered  in  her  defence  % 

Tarbox.  0,  bless  you,  marm,  I  did  n't  volunteer,  —  I  was 
drafted.  I  wish  to  blazes,  now,  I  had  a  volunteered,  and  got 
the  baounty  ! 

Flora.    All  my  illusions  dispelled! 

Tarbox.  Tell  ye  all  abaoiit  it.  The  all-firedest  mean  bizness 
aout.  The  day  they  drafted,  I  was  down  to  the  ingine-house, 
along  with  Elnathan  P.  Sawyer,  and  a  lot  more  Independent 
Odd-Fellows.  Elnathan,  sez  he,  "  Tarbox,  I  bet  you  '11  git 
stuck."  He  had  n't  more  'n  got  the  words  out  of  his 
maouth  when  Quincy  Titcomb,  that  stutters,  came  runnin' 
up.  "  Hearn  the  news  ?  the  list 's  aout  I "  "  Who  be  they  ] " 
says  all  hands.  Quincy  could  n't  git  aout  the  fust  word. 
"  Who  he  they  ?  "  roars  the  crowd.  Qxiincy  made  the  orfMest 
faces,  and  Royal  Marble,  he  took  him  by  the  collar  as  if  he  'd 
shake  it  out  of  him.  "  Tell  us  who  they  be,"  sez  he.  Quincy 
was  corked  as  tight  as  a  ginger-beer  bottle,  but  he  pinted  his 
finger  straight  at  me.  Gosh  !  how  they  all  screeched  and 
screamed  (except  me.)  "  Naow,"  sez  I,  "  Gcn'lemen  feller- 
citizens,  look  a  here  !  I  'vo  got  conscientious  Constitootional 
scruples  (a  larf)  and  a  very  aged  aunt  (roars),  besides  fits 
(yells).  I  don't  back  aout  from  May  trainin's,  nor  Cornwallises, 
nor  I  ain't  afraid  to  swab  aout  our  cannon  arter  she  's  ben 


20  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

tetched  oflF,  —  hut,  as  to  flyin'  in  the  face  of  Providence,  loaded 
with  ball-cartridge,  Congress  hain't  no  title  to  send  for  me. 
There  's  a  higher  law  agin  it.  'T  ain't  right ! "  No  use  !  I 
could  n't  squirm  aout,  no  way  nor  shape,  and  was  bound  to 
go.  So  I  went,  —  and  that's  how  'twas.  (Takes  out  a  pipe 
and  Jills  it.) 

Prim.    How  interesting ! 

Flora.    How  intolerable  ! 

Prim.  Well,  Mr.  Tarbox,  it 's  a  mercy  you  escaped  with 
your  life.  /  consider  that  rheumatism  a  dispensation  of 
Providence  ! 

Flora  (seeiJig  Tarbos.  light  his  pipe).  0,  that  is  too  much! 
Sir,  —  Mr.  Tarbox  !  I  cannot  possibly  have  you  smoke  pipes 
here.     The  smell  of  tobacco  makes  me  very  ill  ! 

Tarbox.  0  bother  !  'T  ain't  no  kinder  use  for  you  to  cut 
up  rough  about  my  pipe.  You  must  git  wonted  to  it,  and 
the  sooner  the  better. 

Flora.  Sir,  if  you  have  no  respect  for  a  lady,  the  sooner 
you  leave  this  house  the  better ! 

Tarbox.  Wal,  wal,  don't  git  so  riled.  I'd  just  as  lives 
clear  out  if  ye  're  so  tarnation  squeamish. 

Prim  (rising).  This  way,  sir,  —  allow  me.  I  'm  sorry  Miss 
Fayaway  is  so  particular,  —  /  adore  tobacco  ! 

[Exeunt  Prim  and  Tarbox. 

Flora  (alone).  0  unhappy  girl  that  I  am !  I  was  ready 
to  sacrifice  my  whole  life  by  one  imprudent  step !  I  expected 
some  one  just  like  the  Heir  of  Redclyffe,  and  I  bound  myself 
by  the  most  solemn  promises  to  this  odious  Down-East  farmer  ! 
And  those  hateful  letters  .  .  .  copied  out  of  that  hateful 
book  !  —  (Flings  book  down.)  What  humiliation  !  How  could  I 
ever  have  written  to  him  !  How  unladylike,  how  ridiculous 
my  conduct  has  been !  I  have  been  living  for  months  in  a 
cloud,  a  mist  of  illusion,  and  now  it  has  cleared  away,  and  I 
see  my  miserable  folly  in  its  true  light !  If  I  had  had  a 
mother,  a  father,  any  one  to  advise  me,  this  never  could  have 
happened.  But  I  trust  I  have  learned  a  lesson  that  will 
make  me  wiser  in  the  future. 


TEOUBLE  ABOUT  MISS  PRETTYMAN.        21 


TROUBLE  ABOUT  MISS  PRETTYMAN. 

JIr.  and  Mrs.  Caudle,  seated.    Mr.  C.  with  his  back  partly  turned,  making 
persevering  efforts  to  read  his  newspaper. 

MRS.  CAUDLE.  If  I  'm  not  to  leave  the  house  without 
being  insulted,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  had  better  stay  in-doors 
all  my  life. 

Mr,  Caudle.  0,  do  let  me  have  a  little  peace  and 
quiet ! 

Mrs.  Caudle.  WTiat !  Don't  tell  me  to  let  you  have  peace 
and  quiet !  I  wonder  at  your  impudence  !  It 's  mighty  fine, 
I  never  can  go  out  with  you  —  and,  goodness  knows  !  it 's 
seldom  enough  —  without  having  my  feelings  torn  to  pieces 
by  people  of  all  sorts.     A  set  of  bold  minxes  ! 

Caudle.    What  are  you  raving  about  ] 

Mrs.  Caudle.  What  am  I  raving  about  ]  0,  you  know 
very  well,  —  very  well  indeed,  Mr.  Caudle.  A  pretty  person 
she  must  be  to  nod  to  a  man  walking  with  his  own  wife  ! 

Caudle.    It 's  Miss  Prettyman. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Don't  tell  me  that  it 's  Miss  Prettyman,  — 
what 's  Miss  Prettyman  to  me  1 

Caudle.  I've  met  her  once  or  twice  at  her  brother's 
house.  ' 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Oh  !  You  've  met  her  once  or  twice  at  her 
brother's  house  1  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  have,  —  no  doubt  of  it. 
I  always  thought  there  was  something  veiy  tempting  about 
that  house,  and  now  I  know  it  all. 

Caudle.    Pooh  !    pooh  !    (manifesting  impatience). 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Now,  it 's  no  use,  Mr.  Caudle,  your  begin- 
ning to  talk  loud,  and  twist  and  toss  yoiir  arms  about  as  if 
you  were  as  innocent  as  a  born  babe,  —  I  'm  not  to  be  deceived 
by  such  tricks  now.  No  ;  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  a 
fool  and  believed  anything ;  but  —  I  thank  my  stars  !  —  I  've 
got  over  that.  A  bold  minx  !  You  suppose  I  did  n't  see  her 
laugh,  too,  when  she  nodded  to  you !     0  yes,    I  knew  what 


22  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

she  thought  me ;  a  poor  miserable  creature,  of  course.  I 
could  see  that. 

Caudle.    You  always  see  more  than  anybody  else. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  No,  don't  say  so,  Caudle.  I  don't  always 
see  more  than  anybody  else,  but  I  can't  and  won't  be  blind, 
however  agreeable  it  might  be  to  you ;  I  must  have  the  use 
of.  my  senses.  I  'm  sure,  if  a  woman  wants  attention  and 
respect  from  a  man,  she  'd  better  be  anything  than  his  wife. 
I  've  always  thought  so ;  and  to-day  's  decided  it. 

Caudle.    Are  n't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  to  talk  so  1 

Mrs.  Caudle.  No  ;  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  myself  to  talk  so. 
Certaiuly  not. 

Caudle.    She 's  a  good,  amiable  young  creature. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Yes,  I  dare  say ;  very  amiable,  no  doubt. 
Of  course  you  think  her  so.  You  suppose  I  did  n't  see  what 
sort  of  a  bonnet  she  had  on  1  O,  a  very  good  creature  ! 
And  you  think  I  did  n't  see  the  smudges  of  court-plaster 
about  her  face  ] 

Caudle.    I  did  n't  see  'em. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  You  did  n't  see  'em  1  Very  likely ;  but  I 
did.     Very  amiable,  to  be  sure. 

Caudle.    You  made  her  blush  at  your  ill  manners. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  What  do  you  say  1  I  made  her  blush  at  my 
ill  manners  1  I  should  like  to  have  seen  her  blush  !  'T  would 
have  been  rather  difficult,  ]VIi\  Caudle,  for  a  blush  to  come 
through  all  that  paint. 

Caudle.    You  're  a  censorious  woman. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  No,  I'm  not  a  censorious  woman,  Mr. 
Caudle,  —  quite  the  reverse.  I  know  what  color  is,  and  I  say 
it  was  paint.  I  believe,  Mr.  Caudle,  /once  had  a  complexion, 
—  though,  of  course,  you  've  quite  forgotten  that,  —  I  think 
I  once  had  a  color,  before  your  conduct  destroyed  it.  Before 
I  knew  you,  people  used  to  call  me  the  Lily  and  the  Rose; 
but  —  {Caudle  laughs).  What  are  you  laughing  at  1  I  see 
nothing  to  laugh  at.  But,  as  I  say,  anybody  before  your 
own  wife.  And  I  can't  walk  out  with  you  but  you  're  bowed 
to  by  every  woman  you  meet ! 


TROUBLE   ABOUT   MISS   PRETTYMAN.  23 

Caudle.  What  do  you  mean  by  every  woman,  when  it 's 
only  Miss  Prettymau  ] 

Mrs.  Caudle.  That 's  nothing  at  all  to  clo  with  it.  How 
do  I  know  who  bows  to  you  when  I  'm  not  by  1  Everybody, 
of  course.  And  if  they  don't  look  at  you,  why  you  look  at 
them.  0  I  'm  sure  you  do  !  You  do  it  even  when  I  'm  out 
with  you,  and  of  coiu-se  you  do  it  when  I  'm  away. 

Caudle.    It  's  no  such  thing. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Now,  don't  tell  me,  Caudle,  —  don't  deny  it. 
The  fact  is,  it 's  become  such  a  dreadful  habit  with  you  that 
you  don't  know  when  you  do  it  and  when  you  don't.  But  I 
do.     Miss  Prettyman,  indeed  ! 

Caudle.  I  won't  sit  stiU  and  hear  you  scandalize  that 
excellent  young  woman. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  0,  of  covirse,  you  '11  take  her  part !  Though, 
to  be  sure,  she  may  not  be  so  much  to  blame  after  all.  For 
how  is  she  to  know  you  're  married  1  You  're  never  seen  out 
of  doors  with  your  own  wife,  — never.  Wherever  you  go,  you 
go  alone.     Of  course  people  think  you  are  a  bachelor. 

Caudle.    I  well  know  I  am  not. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  That 's  nothing  to  do  with  it,  —  I  only  ask 
what  most  people  think,  when  I  'm  never  seen  with  you  1 
Other  women  go  out  with  their  husbands ;  but,  as  I  've  often 
said,  I  'm  not  like  any  other  woman.  — What  are  you  sneering 
at,  Mr.  Caudle  ] 

Caudle.    How  do  you  know  I  'm  sneering  1 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Don't  tell  me  ;  I  know  well  enough.  —  No  ; 
you  never  take  me  out,  and  you  know  it. 

Caudle.    It 's  your  own  fault. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  No  ;  it 's  not  my  own  fault.  How  can  you 
sit  there  and  say  that  1 

Caudle.  I'm  tired  of  asking  you,  for  you  always  start 
some  objection. 

Mrs.  Caudle.  0,  all  a  poor  excuse !  That  's  what  you 
always  say.  Of  course  I  can't  go  out  a  fignre.  And  when  you 
ask  me  to  go,  you  know  very  well  that  my  bonnet  is  n't  as  it 
should  be,  or  that  my  gown  has  n't  come   home,   or   that 


24  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

I  can't  leave  the  children,  or  that  something  keeps  me  in- 
doors. You  know  all  this  well  enough  before  you  ask  me. 
And  that 's  your  art.  And  when  I  do  go  out  with  you,  I  'm 
sure  to  suffer  for  it. 

Caudle.    Suffer  for  it ! 

Mrs.  Caudle.  Yes  ;  you  need  n't  repeat  my  words.  Suffer 
for  it.  But  you  suppose  I  have  no  feelings.  0  no,  nobody 
has  feelings  but  yourself.  Yes  ;  I  'd  forgot :  Miss  Prettymau, 
perhaps, — -yes,  she  may  have  feelings,  of  course.  And,  as  I 
said,  I  dare  say  a  pretty  dupe  people  think  me.  To  be  sure, 
a  poor  forlorn  creature  I  must  look  in  everybody's  eyes. 
But  I  knew  you  could  n't  be  at  Mr.  Prettyman's  house 
night  after  night  till  eleven  o'clock,  —  and  a  great  deal  you 
thought  of  me  sitting  up  for  you,  —  I  knew  jou  could  n't 
be  there  without  some  cause.  And  now  I  've  found  it 
out! 

Caudle.   'Sh  ! 

Mrs.  Caudle.  0,  I  don't  mind  your  'Sh !  But  it 's  like 
you  men.  Lords  of  creation  as  you  call  yourselves  !  Lords, 
indeed  !  And  pretty  slaves  you  make  of  the  poor  creatures 
•who 're  tied  to  you.  But  I'll  be  separated,  Mr.  Caudle,  I 
will ;  and  then  I  '11  take  care  and  let  the  world  know  how 
you  've  used  me. 

Caudle.    You  may  say  your  worst. 

Mrs.  Caudle.    Ha  !    don't  you  tempt  any  woman  in  that 

way,  —  don't,  Caudle ;  for  I  would  n't  answer  for  what  I  said. 

Miss  Pretty  man,  indeed,  and  —     0  yes  !     Now  I  see  !     Now 

the  whole  light  breaks  in  upon  me  !      Now  I  know  wh}^  yoii 

wished  me  to  ask  her  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prettyman  to  tea ! 

And  I,  like  a  poor  blind  fool,  was  nearly  doing  it.     But  now, 

as  I  say,  my  eyes  are  open !     And  you  'd  have  brought  her 

under  my  roof,  —  now  it 's  no  use  your  bouncing  about  in 

that  fashion,  —  you  'd  have  brought  her  into  the  very  house 

where  — 

Caudle  desperately  leaves  the  stage.     Mrs.  Catidle  follows,  shaking  her 
finger  in  a  threatening  manner 


.  MARY   MALONEY'S   PHILOSOPHY.  25 

MARY  MALONEY'S   PHILOSOPHY. 

Mart  Maloney  singing  at  her  work.     Enter  Miss  Allwortht. 

MISS  ALLWORTHY.    What  are  you  singing  fori 
Maey  Maloney.     0,   I  don't  know,  ma'am,  without 
it 's  because  my  heart  feels  happy. 

Miss  A.  Happy,  are  you,  Mary  Maloney  1  Let  me  see ; 
you  don't  own  a  foot  of  land  in  the  world. 

Mary.  Ha,  ha !  Foot  of  land,  is  it  ]  0,  what  a  hand 
ye  be  after  joking  !  Why,  I  have  n't  a  penny,  let  alone  the 
land. 

Miss  A.    Your  mother  is  dead. 

Maby.  God  rest  her  soul,  yes ;  may  the  angels  make  her 
bed  in  heaven  ! 

Miss  A.    Your  brother  is  still  a  hard  case,  I  suppose. 

M^vry.  Ah,  you  may  well  say  that.  It's  nothing  but 
drink,  drink,  di-ink,  and  beating  his  poor  wife  that  she  is, 
the  creature ! 

Miss  A.    You  have  to  pay  your  little  sister's  board. 

Mary.  Sure,  the  bit  creature,  and  she 's  a  good  little  girl, 
is  Hinny,  willing  to  do  whatever  I  axes  her.  I  don't  grudge 
the  money  what  goes  for  that. 

Miss  A.  You  haven't  many  fashionable  dresses  either, 
Mary  Maloney. 

Mary.  Fashionable,  is  it  ?  0  yes,  I  put  a  piece  of  whale- 
bone in  my  skirt,  and  me  calico  gown  looks  as  big  as  the 
great  ladies'.  But  then  ye  says  true,  I  hasn't  but  two 
gowns  to  me  back,  two  shoes  to  me  feet,  and  one  bonnet  to 
me  head,  barring  the  old  hood  ye  gave  me. 

Miss  A,    You  have  n't  any  lover,  Mary  Maloney. 

Mary.  0,  be  off  wid  ye  !  Ketch  Mary  Maloney  getting 
a  lover  these  days,  when  the  hard  times  is  come.  No,  no  ; 
thank  Heaven  I  have  n't  got  that  to  trouble  me  yet,  nor  I 
don't  want  it. 

Miss  A.    What    on    earth,   then,   have  you  to  make   you 
happy?      A   worthless   brother,    a   poor   helpless    sister,    no 
2 


26  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

mother,  no  father,  no  lover ;  why,  where  do  you  get  all  your 
happiness  from  1 

Mart.  The  Lord  be  praised,  miss,  it  growed  np  in  me. 
Give  me  a  bit  of  sunshine,  a  clean  flure,  plenty  of  work,  and 
a  sup  at  the  right  time,  and  I  'm  made.  That  makes  me 
laugh  and  sing,  and  then  if  deep  trouble  comes,  why,  God 
helpin'  me,  I  '11  try  to  keep  my  heart  up.  Sure  it  would  be  a 
sad  thing  if  Patrick  McGrue  should  take  it  into  his  head  to 
come  an  ax  me,  but,  the  Lord  willin,'  I  'd  try  to  bear  up 
under  it. 


RECIPE  FOR  POTATO  PUDDING. 

Mrs.  Philemon,  Mrs.  Darling,  Mrs.  Mudlaw,  Colonel  Philemon. 

Scene,    Mrs.    Philemon's  sitting-room.     Present,  Mrs.  Philemon. 
Enter  Mrs.  Darling. 

MRS.  PHILEMON.  Delighted  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Darling. 
Walk  into  the  parlor,  if  you  please. 

Mrs.  Darling.  No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Philemon ;  I  'd  as 
soon  sit  here.  I  can  only  stay  a  moment.  I  called  to  ask  a 
recipe  for  potato  pudding.  Mr.  Darling  tasted  one  when  he 
dined  with  Colonel  Philemon,  and  liked  it  so  much  that  he 
wished  me  to  get  directions  for  making  it. 

Mrs.  p.  Potato  pudding  1  Ah,  yes,  I  recollect.  Mudlaw, 
my  cook,  does  make  a  very  good  plain  thing  that  she  calls  a 
potato  pudding ;  but  I  know  nothing  about  her  manner  of 
preparing  it.  I  will  call  her,  however,  and  she  shall  teU  you 
herself  {Steps  to  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room.)  Mrs.  Mudlaw, 
step  here  a  moment  if  you  please.  (Enter  Mrs.  Mudlaw.)  What 
do  you  think,  Mrs.  Mudlaw !  Mrs.  Darling  has  come  to  learn 
how  to  make  potato  pudding. 

Mrs.  D.    Yes,  I  would  be  obliged  to  you  for  the  directions. 

{Takes  out  of  her  pocket  a  pencil  and  paper  to  write  them  down.) 

Mrs.  Mudlaw.  Well,  't  is  an  excellent  puddin' ;  for  my 
part,  I  like  it  about  as  well  aa  any  puddin'  that  I  make,  and 


EECIPE    FOE    POTATO   PUDDING.  27 

that 's  sayin'  a  good  deal,  I  can  tell  you,  for  I  understand 
makin'  a  gi-eat  variety.  'T  ain't  so  awful  rich  as  some,  to  be 
sure.  Now,  there  's  the  Cardinelle  puddin',  and  the  "Wash- 
ington puddin',  and  the  Lay  Fayette  puddin',  and  the  — 

Mrs.  D.  Yes,  Mr.  Dai-ling  liked  it  very  much ;  how  do 
you  make  it  1 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  I  peel  my  potaters  and  bile  'em  in  fair  watei*. 
I  always  let  the  water  bile  before  I  put  'em  in.  Some  folks 
let  their  potaters  lie  and  sog  in  the  water  ever  so  long,  before 
it  biles ;  but  I  think  it  spiles  'em.  I  always  make  it  a  pint 
to  have  the  water  bile  —  \ 

Mrs.  D.    How  many  potatoes  ] 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  I  always  take  about  as  many  potaters  as  I 
think  I  shall  want.  I  'm  generally  governed  by  the  size  o' 
the  puddin'  I  want  to  make.  If  it 's  a  large  puddin',  why  I 
take  quite  a  number,  but  if  it 's  a  small  one,  why,  then  I 
don't  take  as  many.  As  quick  as  they  're  done,  I  take  'em  up 
and  mash  'em  as  fine  as  1  can  get  'em.  I  'm  always  very  par- 
tic'lar  about  thaf,  ■ —  some  folks  ain't ;  they  '11  let  their  pota- 
ters be  full  o'  lumps.  /  never  do ;  if  tliere  's  anything  I 
hate,  it 's  lumps  in  potaters.  I  n'o?it  have  'em.  Whether 
I  'm  mashin'  potaters  for  puddin's  or  for  vegetable  use,  I 
mash  it  till  there  ain't  the  size  of  a  lump  in  it.  If  I  can't 
git  it  fine  without  sifting,  why  I  si/t  it.  Once  in  a  wliik^, 
when  I  'm  otherways  engaged,  I  set  the  girl  to  mashin'  on  't. 
Wal,  she  '11  give  it  three  or  four  jams,  and  come  along,  "  Miss 
Mixdlaw,  is  the  potater  fine  enough?"  Jubiter  Ilammin  ! 
that 's  the  time  I  come  as  near  gittin'  mad  as  I  ever  allow 
myself  to  come,  for  I  make  it  a  pint  never  to  have  lumps  — 

Mrs.  D.    Yes,  I  know  it  is  very  important.     What  ne.xt  1 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  then  I  put  in  my  butter ;  in  winter  time  I 
melt  it  a  little,  not  enough  to  make  it  ily,  but  jest  so  's  to 
soften  it. 

Mas.  D.    How  much  butter  does  it  require  1 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  I  always  take  butter  accordin'  to  the  size  of 
the  puddin' ;  a  large  puddin'  needs  a  good-sized  lump  o'  but- 
ter, but  not  too  much.     And  I  'm  always  partic'lar  to  have  my 


28  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

butter  fresh  and  sweet.  Some  folks  think  it 's  no  matter  what 
sort  o'  butter  they  use  for  cookin',  but  /  don't.  Of  all  things 
I  do  despise  strong,  frowy,  rancid  butter.  For  pity's  sake, 
have  your  butter  fresh. 

Mrs.  D.    How  much  batter  did  you  sayl 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  that  depends,  as  I  said  before,  on  what  sized 
puddin'  you  make.  And  another  thing  that  regulates  the 
quantity  of  butter  I  use  is  tJie  'mount  o'  cream  I  take.  I 
always  put  in  more  or  less  cream.  When  I  have  abundance 
o'  cream,  I  put  in  considerable,  and  when  it 's  scarce,  why,  I 
use  more  butter  than  I  otherways  should.  But  you  must  be 
partic'lar  not  to  get  in  too  much  cream.  There  's  a  great 
deal  in  havin'  jest  the  right  quantity ;  and  so  't  is  with  all 
the  ingrejiences.  There  ain't  a  better  puddin'  in  the  world 
than  a  potater  puddin'  when  it 's  made  right,  but  't  ain't 
everybody  that  makes  'em  right.  I  remember  when  I  lived 
in  Tuckertown,  I  was  a  visitin'  to  Squire  Humprey's  one  time, 
—  I  went  in  the  first  company  in  Tuckertown ;  dear  me ! 
this  is  a  changeable  world.  —  Wal,  they  had  what  they  called 
a  potater  puddin'  for  dinner.  Good  land !  Of  all  the  pud- 
din's  !  I  've  often  occurred  to  that  puddin'  since,  and  won- 
dered what  the  Squire's  wife  was  a  thinkin'  of  when  she  made 
it.  I  wa'  n't  obleeged  to  do  no  such  things  in  them  days,  and 
dident  know  how  to  do  anything  as  well  as  I  do  now.  Ne- 
cessity 's  the  mother  of  invention.  Experience  is  the  best 
teacher,  after  all  — 

Mrs.  D.    Do  you  sweeten  it  1 

Mrs.  M.  0  yes,  to  be  sure  it  needs  sugar,  the  best  o'  sugar 
too ;  not  this  wet,  soggy  brown  sugar.  Some  folks  never 
think  o'  usin'  good  sugar  to  cook  with,  but  for  my  part  I 
won't  have  no  other. 

Mrs.  D.    How  much  sugar  do  you  take  1 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  that  depends  altogether  on  whether  you 
calculate  to  have  sass  for  it,  —  some  like  sass,  you  know,  and 
then  some  agin  don't.  So,  when  I  calculate  for  sass,  I  don't 
take  so  much  sugar ;  and  when  I  don't  calculate  for  sass,  I 
make  it  sweet  enough  to  eat  without  sass.     Poor  Mr,  Mudlaw 


RECIPE   FOR   POTATO   PUDDraG.  29 

was  a  great  hand  for  puddin'  -sass.  I  always  made  it  for  him, 
—  good,  rich  sass  too.  I  could  afford  to  have  things  rich 
before  he  was  unfortinate  in  bizness. 

Mks.  p.  {aside).  Mudlaw  went  to  State's  prison  for  horse- 
stealmg. 

Mrs.  M.  I  lilie  sass  myself,  too ;  and  the  curnel  and  the 
children  are  all  great  sass  hands ;  and  so  I  generally  calculate 
for  sass,  though  Miss  Philemon  prefers  the  puddin'  without 
sass,  and  perhaps  i/ou  'd  prefer  it  without.  If  so  you  must 
piit  in  sugar  accordingly.  I  always  make  it  a  pint  to  have 
'em  sweet  enough  when  they're  to  be  eat  without  sass. 

Mrs.  D.    And  don't  you  use  eggs  1 

Mrs.  M.    Certainly,  eggs  is  one  o'  the  principal  ingrejiences. 

Mrs.  D.    How  many  does  it  require  1 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  when  eggs  is  plenty,  I  always  use  plenty ; 
and  when  they  're  scarce,  why  1  can  do  with  less,  though  I  'd 
ruther  have  enough  ;  and  be  sure  and  beat  'em  well.  It  does 
distress  me,  the  way  some  folks  beat  eggs.  I  always  want  to 
have  'em  thoroughly  beat  for  everything  I  use  'em  in.  It 
tries  my  patience  most  awfully  to  have  anybody  round  me 
that  won't  beat  eggs  enough.  A  spell  ago  we  had  a  darkey 
to  help  in  the  kitchen.  One  day  I  was  a  makin'  sponge  cake, 
and  havin'  occasion  to  go  up  stairs  after  something,  I  sot  her 
to  beatin'  the  eggs.  Wal,  what  do  you  think  the  critter 
done  ]  Why,  she  whisked  'em  round  a  few  times,  and  turned 
'em  right  onto  the  other  ingi-ejiences  that  I  'd  got  weighed 
out.  When  I  come  back  and  saw  what  she  'd  done,  my  gra- 
cious !  I  came  as  nigh  to  losin'  my  temper  as  I  ever  allow 
myself  to  come.  'T  was  awful  provokin'  !  I  always  want  the 
kitchen  help  to  do  things  as  I  want  to  have  'em  done.  But 
I  never  saw  a  darkey  yet  that  ever  done  anything  right. 
They  're  a  lazy,  slaughterin'  set.  To  think  o'  her  spilin'  tiiat 
cake  so,  when  I  'd  told  her  over  and  over  agin  that  I  always 
made  it  a  pint  to  have  my  eggs  thoroughly  beat ! 

Mrs.  D.  Yes,  it  was  too  bad.  Do  you  i;se  fruit  in  the 
pudding"? 

Mrs.  M.    Wal,  that 's  jest  as  you  please.     You  'd  better  bo 


30  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

governed  by  your  own  jvidgment  as  to  that.  Some  like  cur- 
rants and  some  like  raisins,  and  then  agin  some  don't  like 
nary  one.  If  you  use  raisins,  for  pity's  sake  pick  out  the 
stuns.  It 's  awful  to  have  a  body's  teeth  come  grindin'  onto 
a  raisin  stun.     1  'd  rather  have  my  ears  boxt  any  time. 

Mrs.  D.    How  many  raisins  must  I  take "? 

Mrs.  Mo  Wal,  not  too  many,  —  it 's  apt  to  make  the  pud- 
din'  heavy,  you  know ;  and  when  it 's  heavy  it  ain't  so  light 
and  good.     I  'm  a  great  hand  — 

Mrs.  D.    Yes,  what  do  you  use  for  flavoring  1 

Mrs.  M.  There  agin  you  'H  have  to  exercise  your  own 
judgment.  Some  likes  one  thing  and  some  another,  you 
know.  If  you  go  the  whole  figger  on  temperance,  why  some 
other  kind  o'  flavyrin'  '11  do  as  well  as  wine  or  brandy,  I 
s'pose.  But  whatever  you  make  up  your  mind  to  use,  be 
particlar  to  git  in  a  sufficiency,  or  else  your  puddin'  '11  be 
flat.     I  always  make  it  a  pint  — 

Mrs.  D.    How  long  must  it  bake  1 

Mrs.  M.  There  's  the  great  thing  after  all.  The  bakin  's 
the  main  pint.  A  potater  puddin',  of  all  puddin's,  has  got  to 
be  baked  jest  right.  For  if  it  bakes  a  leetle  too  much,  it 's 
apt  to  dry  up ;  and  then  agin,  if  it  don't  bake  quite  enough, 
it 's  sure  to  taste  potatery,  —  and  that  spiles  it,  you  know. 

Mrs.  D.    How  long  should  you  think  % 

Mrs.  M.  Wal,  that  depends  a  good  deal  on  the  heat  o'  yoiir 
oven.  If  you  have  a  very  hot  oven,  't  won't  do  to  leave  it  in 
too  long ;  and  if  your  oven  ain't  so  very  hot,  why,  you  '11  be 
necessiated  to  leave  it  in  longei'. 

Mrs.  D.    Well,  how  can  I  tell  anything  about  it  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  I  always  let  them  bake  till  I  think  they  're 
done,  —  that 's  the  safest  way.  I  make  it  a  pint  to  have  'em 
baked  exactly  right.  It 's  very  important  in  all  kinds  o' 
bakin',  —  cake,  pies,  bread,  puddin's,  and  everything,  —  to 
have  'em  baked  precisely  long  enough  and  jest  right.  Some 
folks  don't  seem  to  have  no  system  at  all  about  their  bakin'. 
One  time  they  '11  burn  their  bread  to  a  crisp,  and  then  agin 
it  '11  be  so  slack  't  aint  fit  to  eat.     Nothin'  hurts  my  feelin's 


RECIPE   FOR   POTATO   PUDDING.  31 

SO  much  as  to  see  things  overdone  or  slack-baked.  Here  only 
t'  other  day,  Lorry,  the  girl  that  Miss  Philemon  dismissed 
yesterday,  come  within  an  ace  o'  letting  my  bread  burn  up. 
My  back  was  turned  for  a  minnit,  and  what  should  she  do 
but  go  to  stuffin'  wood  into  the  stove  at  the  awfullest  rate  1 
If  I  hadent  a  found  it  out  jest  when  I  did,  my  bread  would  a 
ben  sp'ilt  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  live  woman.  Jubiter  Rammin  !  I 
was  about  as  much  decomposed  as  I  ever  allow  myself  to  git ! 
I  told  Miss  Philemon  I  wouldent  stan'  it  no  longer,  —  one  of 
us  must  quit,  —  either  Lorry  or  me  must  walk. 

Mrs.  D.    So  you've  no  rule  about  making  this  pudding  1 

Mrs.  M.  {intensely  surprised).      No  rule  ! 

Mrs.  D.  Yes,  you  seem  to  have  no  rule  for  anything 
about  it. 

Mrs.  M.  (starting  up  iadignantly).  No  nde  !  [Planting  herself  in 
fiont  of  Mns.  D.  and  extending  her  forefinger  very  near  that  lady's  nose  ) 
No  rules  !  do  i/ou  tell  me  I  've  no  rules  !  Me  !  that 's  cooked 
in  the  first  families  for  fifteen  years,  and  alwa3's  gin'  satisfac- 
tion, to  be  told  by  such  as  i/ou  that  I  hain't  no  rules ! 

]\Irs.  p.  J/rs.  Mudlaiv  !  Don't  be  excited.  [A  step  is  heard). 
Ah,  there  comes  my  husband  !     He  '11  put  a  stop  to  this. 

Enter  Colonel  Philemon.     Mrs.  M.  casts  a  look  of  ineffable  disgust  at 
Mrs.  D.,  and  retreats  from  the  room. 

Colonel  Philemon  (to  his  luife).  Matilda,  my  dear,  this 
is  quite  an  unexpected  pleasure,  for  really  (turning  to  Mrs.  D.), 
Mrs.  Darling,  we  began  to  fear  that  you  did  not  intend  to 
cultivate  us. 

Mrs.  D.  I  cannot  say  I  came  for  just  that  purpose  this 
time.  1  came  on  an  errand,  and  your  cook  has  got  very  an- 
gry with  me  for  some  reason,  I  scarcely  know  what. 

Mrs.  P.  Poor  Mudlaw  !  I  don't  think  she  intended  to  be 
rude. 

CuL.  P.    What !  has  the  cook  been  rude  to  Mrs.  Darling'? 

Mrs.  p.  Not  rude  exactly,  dear ;  but  you  know"  she  is  so 
sensitive  about  everything  connected  with  her  department, 
and  she  fancied  that  Mrs.  Darling  called  her  skill  into  ques- 
tion, and  became  somewhat  excited. 


32  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  D.    Qiiite  excited,  I  should  call  it.     {Smiling.) 

Col.  p.  And  she  has  dared  to  treat  Mrs.  Darling  rndely ! 
Shameful !  disgraceful !  the  wretch  shall  suffer  for  it !  To 
think  that  a  lady  like  Mrs.  Darling  should  be  insulted  by  a 
cook  !  in  my  house,  too  !  She  shall  troojy  forthwith  !  Mrs. 
Darling,  I  regret  extremely  — 

Mrs.  D.    0,  no  apology.  Colonel  Philemon  ! 

Col.  p.    Won't  you  walk  into  the  parlor  1 

Mrs.  D.  Thank  you.  I  really  had  but  a  moment  to  spare ; 
I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me.     Good  morning. 

Col.  and  Mrs.  P.    Good  morning. 

Mrs.  D.  (aside).  Well,  if  I  have  not  learned  how  to  make 
potato  pudding,  I  have  gained  something.  I  shall  go  home 
better  satisfied  than  ever  with  my  own  cook,  —  both  in  her 
work  and  her  disposition. 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  SEEKING  A  SITUATION. 

Mr.  Gregsbttrt,  a  Member  of  ParJiament,  in  want  of  a  Secretary.   Nich- 
olas NiCKLEBY  in  search  of  employment.     Matthews,  a  servant. 

"^TICHOLAS.  I  brought  this  card  from  the  General  Agency 
-LNI     Office,  sir,  wishing  to  offer  myself  as  your  secretary. 

Mr.  Gregsbury.  You  have  no  connection  with  any  of  those 
rascally  newspapers,  have  you  1 

N.  I  have  no  connection,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  anything 
at  present. 

Mr.  G.    Well.     Now,  what  can  you  do  1 

N.  I  suppose  I  can  do  what  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  other 
secretaries. 

Mr.  G.    What 's  that  1. 

N.  A  secretary's  duties  are  rather  difficult  to  define,  per- 
haps.    They  include,  I  presume,  correspondence  ] 

Mr.  G.    Good. 

N.    The  arrangement  of  papers  and  documents. 

Mr.  G.    Very  good. 


NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY   SEEKING   A    SITUATION.  33 

X.  Occasionally,  perhaps,  the  writing  from  your  dictation, 
and  possibly  the  copying  of  your  speech  for  some  public  jour- 
nal, when  you  have  made  one  of  more  than  usual  importance. 

Mr.  G.    Certainly.     What  else  1 

N.  Really  I  am  not  able  at  this  moment  to  recapitulate 
any  other  duty  of  a  secretary,  beyond  the  general  one  of 
making  himself  as  agreeable  and  useful  to  his  employer  as  he 
can,  consistently  with  his  own  respectability,  and  without 
overstepping  that  line  of  duties  w^hich  he  undertakes  to 
perform,  and  which  the  designation  of  his  office  is  usually 
understood  to  imply. 

Mr.  G.   This  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  —     What  is  yom*  name  ? 

N.    Nickleby. 

Mr.  G.  This  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Nickleby,  and  very  proper 
so  far  as  it  goes,  —  so  far  as  it  goes ;  but  it  does  n't  go  far 
enough.  There  are  other  duties,  Mr.  Nickleby,  which  a  secre- 
tary to  a  parliamentary  gentleman  must  never  lose  sight  of. 
I  should  require  to  be  crammed,  sir. 

N.    I  beg  your  pardon. 

Mr.  G.    To  be  crammed,  sir. 

N.  May  I  beg  your  pardon  again,  if  I  inquire  what  you 
mean  1 

Mr.  G.  My  meaning,  sir,  is  perfectly  plain.  My  secretary 
would  have  to  make  himself  master  of  the  foreign  policy  of 
the  world,  as  it  is  mirrored  in  the  newspapers  ;  to  run  his  eye 
over  all  accounts  of  public  meetings,  all  leading  articles,  and 
reports  of  the  proceedings  of  public  bodies  ;  and  to  make 
notes  of  anything  which  it  appeared  to  him  might  be  made  a 
point  of,  in  any  little  speech  upon  the  question  of  some  peti- 
tion lying  on  the  table,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  Do  you 
understand  % 

N.    I  think  I  do,  sir. 

Mr.  G.  Then  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  make  him- 
self acquainted  from  day  to  day  -with  newspaper  paragi-aphs 
on  passing  events,  such  as  "  Mysterious  Disappearance  and 
supjMJsed  Suicide  of  a  Pot-boy,"  or  anything  of  that  sort,  upon 
which  I  might  found  a  question  to  the  Secretary  of  State  for 
2*  0 


34  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

the  Home  Department.  Then  he  would  have  to  copy  the 
question,  and  as  much  as  I  remembered  of  the  answer  (inchid- 
ing  a  httle  comphment  about  my  independence  and  good 
sense),  and  to  send  the  manuscript  in  a  frank  to  the  local 
paper  with,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen  lines  of  leader  to  the  effect 
that  I  was  always  to  be  found  in  my  place  in  Parliament,  and 
never  shrunk  from  the  discharge  of  my  responsible  and  ardu- 
ous duties,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  You  seel  (N.  bows.) 
Besides  which,  I  shoiild  expect  him  now  and  then  to  go 
through  a  few  figures  in  the  printed  tables,  and  to  pick 
out  a  few  results,  so  that  I  might  come  out  pretty  well  on 
timber-duty  questions,  and  finance  questions,  and  so  on  ;  and 
I  should  like  him  to  get  up  a  few  little  arguments  about  the 
disastrous  effects  of  a  return  to  cash  payments  and  a  metallic 
currency,  with  a  touxih  now  and  then  about  the  exportation 
of  bullion,  and  the  Emperor  of  Hussia,  and  bank-notes,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing,  which  it 's  only  necessary  to  talk  fluently 
about,  because  nobody  understands  'em.     Do  you  take  me  ] 

N.    I  think  1  understand. 

Mr.  G.  With  regard  to  such  questions  as  are  not  political, 
and  which  one  can't  be  expected  to  care  a  screw  about,  beyond 
the  natural  care  of  not  allowing  inferior  people  to  be  as  well 
off  as  ourselves,  —  else,  where  are  our  privileges  1  —  I  should 
wish  my  secretary  to  get  together  a  few  little  flourishing 
speeches  of  a  patriotic  cast.  For  instance,  if  any  preposterous 
bill  were  brought  forward  for  giving  poor  grubbing  wretches  of 
authors  a  right  to  their  own  property,  I  should  like  to  say  that 
I  for  one  would  never  consent  to  opposing  an  insurmountable 
barrier  to  the  diff'usion  of  literature  among  the  people,  —  you 
understand'? — that  the  creations  of  the  pocket,  being  man's, 
might  belong  to  one  man  or  one  family ;  but  that  the  crea- 
tions of  the  brain,  being  God's,  ought,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
to  belong  to  the  people  at  large  ;  and,  if  I  was  pleasantly  dis- 
posed, I  should  like  to  make  a  joke  about  posterity,  and  say 
that  those  who  wrote  for  posterity  should  be  content  to  be 
rewarded  by  the  approbation  of  posterity.  It  might  take  with 
the  House,  and  could  never  do  me  any  harm,  because  posterity 


NICHOLAS   NICKLEBY    SEEKING   A   SITUATION.  35 

can't  be  expected  to  know  anything  about  me,  or  my  jokes 
either.     Don't  you  see  ] 

X.    I  see  that,  sir. 

Mr.  G.  You  must  always  bear  in  mind,  in  such  cases  as 
this,  where  our  interests  are  not  affected,  to  put  it  veiy  strong 
about  the  people,  because  it  comes  out  very  well  at  election 
time  ;  and  you  could  be  as  funny  as  you  liked  about  the  au- 
thors, because,  I  believe,  the  greater  part  of  them  live  in  lodg- 
ings, and  are  not  voters.  This  is  a  hasty  outline  of  the  chief 
things  you  'd  have  to  do,  except  waiting  in  the  lobby  every 
night,  in  case  I  forgot  anything,  and  should  want  fresh  cram- 
ming ;  and  now  and  then,  during  gi-eat  debates,  sitting  in  the 
front  row  of  the  gallery,  and  saying  to  the  people  about, 
"  You  see  that  gentleman,  with  his  hand  to  his  flxce  and  his 
arm  twisted  round  the  pillar  ]  That 's  Mr.  Gregsbury,  —  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Gregsbury,"  with  any  other  little  eulogium 
that  might  strike  you  at  the  moment.  And  for  salary  —  and 
for  salarj',  I  don't  mind  saying  at  once,  in  round  numbers,  to 
prevent  any  dissatisfaction,  —  though  it  's  more  than  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  give,  —  fifteen  shillings  a  week  and  find 
yourself     There  ! 

N.   Fifteen  shillings  a  week  is  not  much. 

Mr.  G.  Not  much  !  —  fifteen  shillings  a  week  not  much, 
young  man  !  —  fifteen  shillings  a  — 

N.  Pi-ay  do  not  suppose  that  I  quarrel  with  the  sum,  for  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that,  whatever  it  may  be  in  itself, 
to  me  it  is  a  great  deal.  But  the  duties  and  responsibilities 
make  the  recompense  small,  and  they  are  so  very  heavy  that 
I  fear  to  undertake  them. 

Mr.  G.    Do  you  decline  to  undertake  them,  sir  1 

N.  I  fear  they  are  too  gi'eat  for  my  powers,  however  good 
my  will  may  be. 

Mr.  G.  That  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  you  had  rather  not 
accept  the  place,  and  that  you  consider  fifteen  shillings  a  week 
too  little.     (Rimjiw)  bell.)     Do  you  decline  it,  sir? 

N.    I  have  no  alternative  but  to  do  so.     (Enter  servant.) 

Mr.  G.    Door,  Matthews. 


36  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

N.    I  am  sorry  I  have  troubled  you  unnecessarily,  sir. 
]\Ir.  G.    I  am  sorry  you  have.     Door,  Matthews. 
N.    Good  morning. 
Mr.  G.   Door,  Matthews. 


M 


TAKING   THE   CENSUS. 

AN.   Madam,  will  you  please  inform  me  of  the  number 
of  inhabitants  in  this  house  1 
"Woman.    Sir ! 

Man.    The  population  in  this  mansion  ! 
Woman.    Well,  there  's  eight  in  the  room  overhead. 
Man.    How  many  1     Eight  1     Are  they  adults  ] 
Woman.    No,  they  are  all  Smiths  except  two  boarders. 
Man.    Smiths  !    black  or  white  smiths,  madam  1 
Woman.    I  'd  have  you  to  know  I  don't  live  in  a  house  with 


niggers. 


Man.    I  did  n't  allude  to  color,  I  meant  their  calling. 

Woman.  0,  that 's  it,  is  it  ]  Well,  if  you  had  been  here 
last  night,  you  'd  have  found  out ;  for  they  were  calling  the 
watch  as  loud  as  they  could  scream. 

Man.  Madam,  I  merely  wish  to  know  how  many  people 
you  have  in  this  house,  and  what  they  do  for  a  living. 

Woman.  Yes,  yes,  now  I  understand.  Well,  let  me  see; 
there  's  the  two  Mullins,  that 's  one. 

Man.    That  makes  two,  madam. 

Woman.    Well,  if  you  know  best,  count  'em  yourself. 

Man.    It  is  my  business  to  inquire,  madam. 

Woman.  Well,  you'd  better  attend  to  it,  then,  and  don't 
bother  me. 

]\Ian.    Madam,  I  am  out  with  the  census,  and  — 

Woman.  Well,  you  act  out  of  yoiu-  senses,  I  should  think, 
to  come  into  my  house  asking  such  foolish  questions. 

Man.    It  is  in  accordance  with  an  act  of  Congi-ess,  madam. 

Woman.  Well,  you  tell  Mr.  Congress,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  that  he  acts  very  foolish,  sending  you  round  axing 
sich  shaller,  silly  questions. 


A  PROMPT   MESSENGER.  37 


A   PROMPT   MESSENGER. 

Heaetlt.    Solomon  Gundy.     Enter  Solomon    Gundy  with  a  sign- 
board wider  his  arm. 

HEARTLY.  Now,  Solomon  Gundy,  how  are  they  going 
on  in  the  village  1 

Solomon.  The  conflagellation  has  been  dreadful,  all  smother 
and  rubbish.  'T  is  the  greatest  calamity  to  our  village  since 
my  father  was  a  schoolmaster. 

Hea.  Don't  get  on  the  old  subject  now.  We  '11  waive  the 
schoolmaster  till  we  have  more  leisure. 

Sol.  De  toot  mong  cure,  though  't  was  under  him  I  made 
all  my  deficiency  in  the  English  tongue,  before  I  went  to 
France  and  learnt  to  parly  voo. 

Hea.  Well,  well,  your  father  has  been  dead  these  eleven 
years. 

Sol.  Dead  as  Malbrook.  He 's  viore,  as  the  French  say, 
which  in  English  means,  he  is  no  more.  So  peace  to  his 
remaindei's ! 

Hea.  Now  tell  me  of  the  cottagers.  Have  they  suffered 
much  from  the  fire  % 

Sol.    Most  of 'em  ruined,  and  nothing  to  turn  their  hands  to. 

Hea.    Poor  fellows ! 

Sol.  Ay!  all  poor  indigenous  pheasants.  Thanks  to  in- 
dustry, I  've  better  luck.  I  snatched  the  board  from  over  my 
door,  when  I  was  burnt  out,  and  ran  off  with  it  under  my 
arm.  Here  it  is.  (Reads.)  "  Rats  and  gentlemen  catched  and 
waited  on  and  all  other  jobs  performed  by  Solomon  Gundy." 

(Puts  the  board  down.) 

Hea.    You  have  still  a  livelihood,  then,  Solomon  ? 

Sol.  Edication  and  travel  fit  a  man  for  anything,  and 
make  him  Vi.  jolly  garsoon.  You  'd  hardly  think  it,  but  at  four- 
teen years  I  could  read. 

Hea.    You  don't  say  so. 

Sol.    Fact,  upon  my  patrole ;  and  any  sum  in  arithmctio 


38  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

that  did  n't  demand  subtraction,  addition,  or  multiplication,  I 
looked  upon  as  a  i^^^^y  ^^'^^  shose. 

Hea.    Why,  you  are  a  perfect  prodigy  of  genius. 

Sol.  I  believe  I  have  picked  up  a  little  ;  and  the  captain 
of  the  cutter,  on  our  coast,  that  traded  in  brandy,  taking  me 
to  Dinikirk  for  six  months,  perhaps  has  given  me  a  jenny  see 
qnaiv,  to  which  the  commonality  seldom  perspire. 

Hea.    Who  was  that  captain,  Solomon  1 

Sol.  Quite  the  gentleman,  —  an  elli/  gong,  as  the  French 
say  ;  and  felt  such  a  sympathy  against  vulgar  custom-house 
officers,  he  'd  have  no  dealings  with  them,  so  he  always  smug- 
gled. 

Hea.    But  I  hope  no  lives  are  lost  amongst  our  neighbors. 

Sol.  Not  a  Christian  soul,  except  the  old  village  Bull  and 
a  Porker.  Their  loss  is  to  be  implored,  though  they  were 
but  quadlipeds.  But  a  number  of  accidents,  —  Jacob  Grull, 
the  hump-backed  taxman,  jumped  out  of  his  cock-loft  into 
the  water-tub  ;  poor  reformed  creature  !  If  we  had  n't  heard 
him  bawling  "Fire!"  he'd  have  been  drowned.  And  fat 
Mrs.  Doubletiin  scrambling  down  a  ladder  was  so  hurt  that 
she  won't  be  able  to  assayez  voo  for  a  fortnight. 

Hea.  These  calamities  are  not  very  serious  ;  but  a  number 
of  buildings  are  doubtless  destroyed. 

Sol.  All  down  but  the  house  of  deception  for  travellers, 
and  the  contagious  brick  messages  beyond  it.  We  woi'ked 
hard  to  save  'em,  labored  like  gallypot  slaves. 

Hea.  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  be  of  service  in  the 
general  calamity. 

Sol.  We  know  that.  You  are  full  of  amour  proper  for 
your  neighbors,  as  we  say  at  Dunkirk ;  nobody  doubts  the 
malevolence  of  your  heart. 

Hea.  An  hour  hence  I  shall  be  among  you  in  the  vil- 
lage. 

Sol.  An  hour  !  Then  your  amee  who  has  been  overturned 
will  be  put  out  of  patience. 

Hea.    a  friend  of  mine  overturned  in  the  village  % 

Sol.    Plump  into  the  horse-pond,  shot  from  a  chaise,  out 


A   PROMPT   MESSENGER.  39 

at  elbows,  with  four  posters.  Don't  be  frightened ;  he  fell 
too  much  in  the  mud  to  be  hurt. 

Hea.   You  're  sure  he 's  safe  1 

Sol.    As  his  most  sanguiuaiy  friend  could  wish, 

Hea.    What 's  his  name  1 

Sol.  Can't  tell.  He 's  at  the  Spread  Eagle.  The  carriage 
broken  in  twenty  morso's.  I  helped  to  drag  it.  No  coach- 
maker  by,  I  offered  to  impair  it.  The  great  gentleman  was 
daubed  and  looked  like  a  hog.  No  servant  with  him.  I 
scraped  him.  He  read  my  board  as  I  was  rubbing  him  down. 
Wanted  to  send  you  a  hilly,  — no  messenger  at  hand,  —  I  've 
brought  it.  He  gave  me  a  guinea  :  I  called  him  an  angel ; 
he  bid  me  run  like  a  fury.  I  told  him  I  would ;  so  I  have, 
and  there  's  the  contentions.     (Gives  a  letter.) 

Hea.  (reading  the  letter). 

"  Dear  Heartly  :  I  have  just  tumbled  into  my  estate.  Let  none 
of  the  A-illagers  know  who  I  am  till  I  get  to  my  house  ;  I  hate 
fuss.     Don't  say  I  'm  a  rich  man.     Come  to  me  at  the  alehouse. 

"John  Tooney." 

I  will  wait  on  the  gentleman,  Solomon,  directly. 

Sol.  That 's  just  wdiat  I  should  like  to  do  myself.  Speak 
a  good  word  to  him  for  me.  Pauvre  Solomon  Gundy,  just 
burnt  out,  kills  vermin,  and  dresses  gentlemen.  I  know  he 
•will  attend  to  your  imprecations. 

Hea.  There 's  no  hurry,  —  he  '11  stay  in  the  neighborhood 
some  time. 

Sol.  Will  he  %  Take  a  chateau  perhaps.  I  am  up  to  every- 
thing about  a  house. 

Hea.  Well,  well,  follow  me,  and  we  '11  see  what  can  be 
done  for  you. 

Sol.  I  thank  your  Honor.  I  'm  very  graceful.  If  I  am 
but  burnt  into  a  good  place  after  all,  this  fire  will  turn  out  as 
fine  a  feiv  de  jo;/  of  misfortune  to  me  as  could  possibly  be. 
I  'U  follow  your  Honor. 


40  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 


CROSS  FIRING. 

Corporal  Cartottch,   ivith  musket  in  hand,  amusing  himself  with  going 
through  the  manual  exercise.     Leza  seated  at  her  work-table. 


L 


EZA.    If  a  girl  were  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  Corporal, 
what  would  you  dol 
Cartouch.    Present  arms  ! 
Leza.    She  would  doubtless  look  to  you  for  — 
Car.    Support ! 

Leza.    And  then  what  a  heavy  burden  you  'd  have  to  — 
Car.    Carry ! 

Leza.    Your  butcher  and  baker  would  have  to  — 
Car.    Charge  ! 

Leza.   Your  prospects  of  course  would  not  — 
Car.    Advance  ! 
Leza.    And  you  'd  have  to  — 
Car.    'Bout  face ! 
Leza.    And  never  have  any  — 
Car.    Rest ! 

Leza.    A  man  of  your  years  is  not  able  to  bear  such  a  — 
Car.    Load  ! 

Leza.    You  are  not  in  your  — 
Car.    Prime  ! 
Leza.    Your  wife  may  — 
Car.    'Bout! 

Leza.    Leave  you ;  but  she  will  soon  — 
Car.    Return  ! 

Leza.    And  then  you  'd  have  to  bear  all  on  your  own  — 
Car.    Shoulder ! 
Leza.    Would  you  be  — 
Car.    Ready ! 

Leza.    I  think  you  'd  have  some  other  — 
Car.    Aim ! 

Leza.    And  you  'd  throw  your  love-letters  into  the  — 
Car.    Fire  !      {Fires  his  7nusket.) 


THE   WILL.  41 


THE  WILL. 


Mr.  Swipes,  a  brewer.    Mr.  Currie,  a  saddler.    Frank  Millington. 

Squire  Drawl. 

SWIPES.    A    sober  occasion  this,  Brother  Cun-le.      Who 
would  have  thought  the  old  lady  was  so  near  her  end  ] 

CuRRiE.  Ah  !  we  must  all  die,  Brother  Swipes,  and  those 
who  live  longest  only  bury  the  most. 

Swipes.  True,  true ;  but  since  we  must  die  and  leave  our 
earthly  possessions,  it  is  well  that  the  law  takes  such  good 
care  of  us.     Had  the  old  lady  her  senses  when  she  departed  ] 

CuRRiE.  Perfectly,  perfectly.  Squire  Drawl  told  me  she 
read  every  word  of  her  testament  aloud,  and  never  sigued  her 
name  better. 

Swipes.  Had  you  any  hint  from  the  squire  what  disposition 
she  made  of  her  property  ? 

CuRRiE.  Not  a  whisper  ;  the  squire  is  as  close  as  an  under- 
ground tomb  ;  but  one  of  the  witnesses  hinted  to  me  that  she 
has  cut  off  her  graceless  nephew  with  a  cent. 

Swipes.  Has  she,  good  soul !  —  has  she  1  You  know  I  come 
in,  then,  in  right  of  my  wife. 

CuRRiE.  And  I  in  mi/  own  right ;  and  this  is,  no  doubt,  the 
reason  why  we  have  been  called  to  hear  the  reading  of  the  will. 
Squire  Drawl  knows  how  things  should  be  done,  though  he  is 
as  air-tight  as  one  of  your  own  beer-barrels.  But  here  comes 
the  young  reprobate  ;  he  must  be  present  as  a  matter  of 
course,  you  know.  {Enter  Frank  Millington.)  Your  servant, 
young  gentleman.     So  your  benefactress  has  left  you  at  last. 

Swipes.  It  is  a  painful  thing  to  part  with  old  and  good 
friends,  Mr.  Millington. 

Frank.  It  is  so,  sir ;  but  I  could  bear  her  loss  better  had 
I  not  so  often  been  ungrateful  for  her  kindness.  She  was  my 
only  friend,  and  I  knew  not  her  value. 

CuRRiE.  It  is  too  late  to  repent.  Master  Millington.  You 
will  now  have  a  chance  to  earn  your  own  bread  — 


42  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Swipes.  Ay,  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  as  better  people 
are  obliged  to.  You  would  make  a  fine  brewer's  boy,  if  you 
were  not  too  old. 

CuERiE.    Ay,  or  a  saddler's  lackey,  if  held  with  a  tight  rein 

Frank.  Gentlemen,  your  remarks  imply  that  my  aunt  has 
treated  me  as  I  deserved.  I  am  above  your  insults,  and  only 
hope  you  will  bear  your  fortune  as  modestly  as  I  shall  mine 
submissively.      I  shall  retire.      {Going,  he  meets  the  Squire.) 

Squire.  Stop,  stop,  young  man !  We  must  have  your 
presence.  Good  morumg,  gentlemen ;  you  are  early  on  the 
ground. 

CuRRiE.    I  hope  the  Squire  is  well  to-day. 

Squire.    Pretty  comfortable  for  an  invalid. 

Swipes.  I  trust  the  damp  air  has  not  affected  the  Squire's 
lungs  again. 

Squire.  No,  I  believe  not.  You  know  I  never  hurry  ;  slow 
and  sure  is  my  maxim.  Well,  since  the  heirs-at-law  are  all 
convened,  I  shall  pi'oceed  to  open  the  last  will  and  testament 
of  your  deceased  relative,  according  to  law. 

Swipes  {while  he  is  breaking  the  seal).  It  is  a  trying  scene  to  leave 
all  one's  possessions,  Squire,  in  this  manner. 

CuRRiE.  It  really  makes  me  feel  melancholy  when  I  look 
round  and  see  everything  but  the  venerable  owner  of  these 
goods.     Well  did  the  Preacher  say,  "  All  is  vanity." 

Squire.  Please  to  be  seated,  gentlemen.  (All  sit.  The  Squire 
having  put  on  his  spectacles,  begins  to  read  in  a  drawling,  nasal  tone.) 
"  hnprimis :  Whereas  my  nephew,  Francis  Millington,  by  his 
disobedience  and  ungrateful  conduct,  has  shown  himself  un- 
worthy of  my  bounty,  and  incapable  of  managing  my  large 
estate,  I  do  hereby  give  and  bequeath  all  my  houses,  farms, 
stocks,  bonds,  moneys,  and  property,  both  personal  and  real, 
to  my  dear  cousins,  Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt  Street,  brewer, 
and  Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly  Court,  saddler  "  —  {The  Squire 
takes  off  his  spectacles  to  ivipe  them.) 

Swipes  {takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  attempts  to  snivel).  Generous 
creature  !     Kind  soul !     I  always  loved  her. 

Currie.    She  was  always  a  good  friend  to  me,  and  she  must 


V  THE   WILL.  43 

have  had  her  seuses  perfectly,  as  the  Squire  says.  And  now, 
Brother  Swipes,  when  we  divide,  I  think  I  shall  take  the 
mansion-house. 

Swipes.  Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Currie.  My  wife 
has  long  had  her  eye  upon  that,  and  must  have  it.     {Both  rise.) 

Currie.  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  baroain,  ^Ir. 
Swipes.  And,  besides,  I  ought  to  have  the  first  choice.  Did 
not  I  lend  her  a  new  chaise  every  time  she  wished  to  ride  1 
and  who  knows  what  influence  — 

Swipes.  Am  I  not  named  first  in  her  will  1  and  did  I  not 
furnish  her  with  my  best  small-beer  for  more  than  six  months  1 
and  who  knows  — 

Frank.    Gentlemen,  I  must  leave  you.     (Gowg.) 

Squire  (who  has  been  leisurely  wiping  his  spectacles,  again  puts  them  on, 
and,  with  his  calm,  nasal  twang,  calls  out).  Pray,  gentlemen,  keep 
your  seats;  I  have  not  done  yet.  [All sit.)  Let  me  see, — 
where  was  I  ]  Ay,  —  "  all  my  property,  both  personal  and 
real,  to  my  dear  cousins,  Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt  Street, 
brewer  "  —      (Looking  over  his  spectacles  at  Swipes.) 

Swipes  (eagerly).    Yes  ! 

Squire.   "  And  Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly  Court,  saddler  "  — 

(Looking  over  his  spectacles  at  him.) 

Currie  (eagerly).   Yes,  yes  ! 

Squire.  "To  have  and  to  hold  —  IN  TRUST  —  for  the 
sole  and  exclusive  benefit  of  my  nephew,  Francis  Millington, 
until  he  shall  have  attained  to  lawful  age,  by  which  time  I 
hope  he  will  have  so  far  reformed  his  evil  habits  as  that  he 
may  safely  be  intrusted  with  the  large  fortune  which  I  hereby 
bequeath  to  him." 

Swipes.  What  's  all  this  1  You  don't  mean  that  we  are 
humbugged  1  In  trust  !  How  does  that  appear  ?  Where  is 
it? 

Squire  (pointing  to  the  parchment).  There,  in  two  words  of  as 
good  old  English  as  I  ever  penned. 

Currie.  Pretty  well,  too,  Mr.  Squire  !  if  we  must  be  sent 
for  to  be  made  a  laughing-stock  of.  She  shall  pay  for  every 
ride  she  had  out  of  my  chaise,  I  promise  you. 


44  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Swipes.  And  for  every  drop  of  my  beer.  Fine  times,  if 
two  sober,  hard-working  citizens  are  to  be  brought  here  to  be 
made  the  sport  of  a  graceless  profligate  !  But  we  will  manage 
his  property  for  him,  Mr.  Currie  ;  we  will  make  him  feel  that 
trustees  are  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Currie.    That  will  we  ! 

Squire.  Not  so  fast,  gentlemen ;  for  the  instrument  is  dated 
three  years  ago,  and  the  young  gentleman  must  already  be  of 
age,  and  able  to  take  care  of  himself.     Is  it  not  so,  Francis  ] 

Frank.    It  is,  your  worship. 

Squire,  Then,  gentlemen,  having  attended  the  breaking 
of  this  seal,  according  to  law,  you  are  released  from  any  fur- 
ther trouble  in  the  premises. 


OBTAINING  HELP   IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Scene,  a  parlor.  Jive  miles  from  Newhuryport.      Bridget  seated  in  an 
easy-chair.     Enter  the  Lady  of  the  House. 

BRIDGET  (briskly,  without  rising).      Good  morning,  ma'am. 
Lady  {standing).    Good  morning.    Will  you  tell  me  your 
name  and  errand  1 

Brid.  Sure,  Bridget  O'Calligan  's  my  name,  ma'am  ;  the 
same  that 's  walked  all  the  way  from  the  city  to  see  ye. 

Lady  {kindly).     Tell  me  how  I  can  serve  yoti,  Bridget. 

Brid.  Indade,  ma'am,  if  you  plase,  and  it 's  me  that 's 
come  to  say  I  'm  willing  to  sarve  yersilf. 

Lady.  0  yes,  I  understand ;  my  husband  was  inquiring  in 
the  city  for  a  servant ;  and  you  would  like  the  place  1 

Brid.  I  'm  not  so  sure  but  I  might,  if  ye  'd  make  it  for  me 
interest  to  go  so  far  out.  It 's  Margaret  Degnan  (she  that 
lives  with  his  riverence,  Doctor  Burleigh)  told  me  you  's  dis- 
trist  for  help ;  so  I  called  to  see  his  lady  about  ye,  and  she 
gave  ye  such  a  good  charac'ter,  and  ricommended  ye  so  high, 
that  I  thought  ye'd  jist  suit  me  ;  so  I've  brought  me  things 
{showing  a  bundle  under  her  cloak),  and  if  ye  can  accommodate  me 


OBTAINING  HELP   IN   THE   COUNTRY.  45 

in  rispect  to  the  work  and  the  wages,  I  '11  be  after  stopping 
with  ye. 

Lady  (smiling).  How  could  I  accommodate  you  as  to  the 
work  ? 

Brid.  Well,  it  is  n't  Bridget  O'Calligan  would  be  hard  upon 
so  winsome  a  lady,  —  ye  looks  youngish,  too,  and  delikit-like  ; 
but  I  suppose  ye'd  be  after  wanting  to  do  the  nicest  of  yer 
own  cooking. 

Lady.    I  have  done  so  for  the  last  four  years. 

Brid.  (brightening  up).  Sure  I  was  right.  Yer  house  (glancing 
around  the  parlors)  looks  nice.  I  suppose  ye  'd  be  after  taking 
charge  to  kape  it  clain  and  in  order  yersilf,  —  except  the 
kitchen. 

Lady.    I  have  been  accustomed  to  do  so. 

Brid.  Yer  husband  's  the  minister,  they  said ;  I  suppose 
it's  only  yersilf,  ma'am,  wovild  be  able  to  suit  him  to  his 
linen. 

Lady.  You  are  right  again,  Bridget ;  my  husband's  linen 
I  never  trust  to  any  hands  but  my  own. 

Brid.  (rklighted).  Sure,  ma'am,  I  'm  thinking  Mrs.  Doctor 
Burleigh  did  n't  ricommend  ye  without  rason.  Have  ye  any 
childer  ? 

Lady.   Yes,  two  boys,  six  and  eight  years  old. 

Brid.  And  ye  wouldn't  be  after  axin  me  to  mind  them; 
ye  'd  be  expectin'  to  mind  yer  own  boys,  of  course  1 

Lady,    Certainly,  that  is  altogether  customary. 

Brid.  Faith,  ma'am,  I  'd  like  to  be  living  with  so  kind  and 
hilpful  a  lady.     What 's  been  yer  wages,  ma'am  1 

Lady.  Nothing.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  work  without 
wages. 

Brid.  (bewildered).     Ma'am? 

Lady.  I  have  done  the  work  of  my  family  unaided  for 
the  last  four  years,  and  have  therefore  neither  paid  nor 
received  wages. 

Brid.  (astonished).  Sure,  ma'am,  are  ye  after  being  one  of 
that  sort  ]     Ye  don't  look  like  it ;  I  'd  niver  a  thought  of  it. 

Lady.   I  ain  precisely  that  sort,  I  assure  you,  Bridget.     I 


46  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

choose  to  have  either  the  comfort  of  doing  my  work  myself, 
or  the  comfort  of  having  it  done  for  me.  You  see  I  should 
have  neither  if  I  employed  you.     Good  morning. 

Brid.  Faith,  it's  the  truth  ye  spake,  ma'am.  Good  day 
to  ye.  (Soliloquizing  as  she  goes.)  Sure,  and  what  should  a  dacent 
girl  be  after  leavin'  the  world  to  live  in  the  country  for,  if 
not  for  large  wages  and  small  work  1  The  saints  sind  her 
help  j  but  it 's  not  for  the  like  o'  sich  the  O'Calligans  works. 


QUARREL  OF  SAIREY  GAMP  AND  BETSEY  PRIG. 

Scene,  Mrs.  Gamp's  apartment.    Mrs.  Gamp  arranging  the  tea-board. 

MRS.  GAMP.  There  !  Now,  Betsey,  don't  be  long  !  For 
I  can't  abear  to  wait,  I  do  assure  you.  To  wotever 
place  I  goes,  I  sticks  to  this  one  mortar,  "  I  'm  easy  pleased ; 
it  is  but  little  as  I  wants ;  but  I  must  have  that  little  of  the 
best,  and  to  the  minit  when  the  clock  strikes,  else  we  do  not 
part  as  I  could  wish,  but  beariu'  malice  in  our  'arts."  {Takes 
snuff.)  There  's  the  little  bell  a-ringing  now.  (Enter  Mrs.  Prig.) 
My  precious  Betsey,  how  late  you  are  ! 

Mrs.  Prig.  Well,  if  perwerse  people  goes  off  dead  when 
they  is  least  expected,  it  a'n't  no  fault  o'  mine.  And  it 's 
quite  aggi'awation  enough  to  be  made  late  when  one  is  drop- 
ping for  one's  tea,  without  hearing  on  it  again.  (Mrs.  Gamp 
conducts  her  toward  the  table.)  I  know'd  she  wouldn't  have  a 
cowcumber ! 

Mrs.  G.  (sinking  in  a  chair).  Lord  bless  you,  Betsey  Prig, 
your  words  is  true.     I  quite  forgot  it. 

Mrs.  p.  (with  an  air  of  surly  triumph,  drawing  from  her  pocket  a  head 
of  lettuce  or  cabbage,  and  othei-  vegetables).  There  !  jest  slice  them 
up  with  plenty  of  vinegar.  CMiis.  Gamp  proceeds  to  do  so.)  And 
don't  go  a  dropping  none  of  your  snuff  in  it.  In  gruel,  bar- 
ley-water, apple-tea,  mutton-broth,  and  that,  it  don't  signify. 
It  stimulates  a  patient.     But  I  don't  relish  it  myself. 

Mrs.  G.    Why,  Betsey  Prig !     How  can  you  talk  so  ! 


QUARREL   OF   SAIREY   GAMP   AND  BETSEY   PRIG.        47 

Mrs.  p.  Why,  a'n't  your  patients,  -wotever  their  diseases  is, 
always  a  sueeziu'  theh-  wery  heads  off,  along  of  your  snutf  ] 

Mrs.  G.    And  wot  if  they  are  ? 

Mrs.  p.   Nothing  if  they  are.     But  don't  deny  it,  Sairah. 

Mrs.  G.  Who  deniges  of  it  ]  Who  deniges  of  it,  Betsey  1 
(Solemnly.)     Betsey,  who  deniges  of  if? 

Mrs.  p.  Nobody,  if  you  don't,  Sairah.  (Throwing  off  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  seating  herself  opposite  Mrs.  G.  at  table.) 

Mrs.  G.  (turning  out  the  tea).  Betsey,  I  will  now  propoge  a 
toast.     "  My  frequent  pardner,  Betsey  Prig  !  " 

Mrs.  p.  Which,  altei'iug  the  name  to  Sairah  Gamp,  I 
drink  with  love  and  tenderness.  —  Now,  Sairah,  joining  busi- 
ness with  pleasure,  wot  is  the  case  in  which  you  wants  me  1 
Is  it  Mrs.  Harris? 

Mrs.  G.   No,  Betsey  Prig,  it  a'n't. 

Mrs.  p.    Well !  I  'm  glad  of  that,  at  any  rate. 

Mrs.  G.  (warmly).  Why  should  you  be  glad  of  that,  Bet- 
sey? She  is  unbeknown  to  you  except  by  hearsay;  why 
should  you  be  glad  1  If  you  have  anythink  to  say  contrairy 
to  the  character  of  Mrs.  Harris,  which  well  I  knows  behind 
her  back,  afore  her  face,  or  anywheres,  is  not  to  be  impeaged, 
out  with  it,  Betsey.  I  have  never  know'd  as  you  had  occa- 
gion  to  be  glad,  on  accounts  of  Mrs.  Harris  not  requiring  you. 
Require  she  never  w^ill,  depend  upon  it,  for  her  constant 
words  in  sickness  is,  and  will  be,  "  Send  for  Sairey !  " 

Mrs.  p.  (helping  herself  from  the  teapot).  Well,  it  a'n't  her,  it 
seems  ;  who  is  it  then  1 

Mrs.  G.  You  have  heerd  me  mention,  Betsey,  a  person  as 
I  took  care  on  at  the  time  as  you  and  me  was  pardners  off 
and  on,  in  that  there  fever  at  the  Bull  ] 

Mrs.  p.    Old  SnuflFey. 

Mrs.  G.  ChufFe3^  Mr.  Chuffey,  Betsey,  is  weak  in  his 
mind.  Excuge  me  if  I  makes  remark,  that  he  may  neither 
be  so  weak  as  people  thinks,  nor  people  may  not  think  he  is 
so  weak  as  he  pretends,  and  what  I  knows,  I  knows ;  and 
what  you  don't,  you  don't ;  so  do  not  ask  me,  Betsey.  But 
Mr.  Chuffcy's  friends  has  made  propojals  for  his  bciu'  took 


48  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

care  on,  and  has  said  to  me,  "  Mrs.  Gamp,  will  you  undertake 
it]  We  could  n't  think,"  they  says,  "of  trustin'  him  to  no- 
body but  you,  Sairey,  you  are  gold  as  has  passed  the  furnage. 
Will  you  undertake  it,  at  your  own  price,  day  and  night,  and 
by  your  own  self?"  "No,"  I  says,  "I  will  not.  Do  not 
reckon  on  it.  There  is,"  I  says,  "  but  one  creetur  in  the 
world  as  I  would  iindertake  on  sech  tei'ms,  and  her  name  is 
Harris.  But,"  I  says,  "  I  am  acquainted  with  a  friend,  whose 
name  is  Betsey  Prig,  that  I  can  recommend,  and  will  assist 
me.  Betsey,"  I  says,  "  is  always  to  be  trusted  under  me,  and 
will  be  guided  as  I  could  desire."  —  Mrs.  Harris,  Betsey  — 

Mrs.  p.  Bother  Mrs.  Harris  !  {Folding  her  arms  and  shutting 
one  eye.)  I  don't  believe  there  's  no  sich  a  person  !  {Snapping 
her  fingers  three  times ;  then  rising  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl. ) 

Mrs.  G.  {rising).  What !  you  bage  creetur,  have  I  know'd 
Mrs.  Harris  five-and-thirty  year,  to  be  told  at  last  that  there 
an't  no  sech  a  person  livin' !  Have  I  stood  her  friend  in  all 
her  troubles,  gi'eat  and  small,  for  it  to  come  to  sech  an  end  as 
this,  which  her  own  sweet  picter  hanging  up  afore  you  all  the 
time  to  shame  your  Bragian  words  !  But  well  you  may  n't 
believe  there  's  no  sech  a  creetur,  for  she  would  n't  demean 
herself  to  look  at  you,  and  often  has  she  said,  when  I  have 
made  mention  of  your  name,  which,  to  my  sinful  sorrow,  I 
have  done,  "  What,  Sairey  Gamp  !  debage  yourself  to  Aer  !  " 
Go  along  with  you  ! 

Mrs.  p.  {stopping).      I  'm  a  goin',  ma'am,  a'n't  I] 

Mrs.  G.    You  had  better,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  p.    Do  you  know  who  you  're  talkin'  to,  ma'am  1 

Mrs.  G.     Aperiently    {surveying   her  with  scorn  from  head  to  foot) 

to  Betsey  Prig.     Aperiently  so.     /  know  her.     No  one  better. 
Go  along  with  you  ! 

Mrs.   p.    And  i/ou  was   a-going  to  take  me    under  you ! 

{Surveying  Mrs.   G.  from  head  to  foot  in  her  turn.)       You    was,     was 

you  1      0,   how  kind !      Why !    deuce   take   your  imperence 
{ferociously),  what  do  you  mean'? 

Mrs.  G.    Go  along  with  yon  !  I  blush  for  you. 

Mrs.  p.    You  had  better  blush  a  little  for  yourself,  while 


SAM   WELLER'S   VALENTINE.  49 

you  are  about  it !  You  and  your  Chuffeys  !  What,  the  poor 
creetui-  is  n't  mad  enough,  is  n't  he  ?     Aha ! 

Mrs.  G.  He  'd  very  soon  be  mad  enough  if  you  had  any- 
thiuk  to  do  with  him. 

Mrs.  p.  (triumphantly).  And  that's  what  I  was  wanted  for, 
is  it  ?  Yes.  But  you  '11  find  yourself  deceived.  I  won't  go 
near  him.  We  shall  see  how  you  get  on  without  me.  I 
won't  have  nothink  to  do  with  him. 

Mrs.  G.  You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that !  Go 
along  with  you  ! 

Mrs.  p.  (accidentally  upsetting  a  chair  as  she  goes  out,  grumbling  to 
herself.)  Under  Sairah  Gamp,  —  imperent  creetui',  —  nothing 
to  do  with  that  Chuffey. 

Mrs.  G.  (alone).  If  my  eyes  don't  deceive,  wot  I  have 
took  from  Betsey  Pi'ig  this  blessed  night  no  mortial  crcctur 
knows !  If  she  had  abuged  me,  bein'  in  liquor,  which  I 
thought  I  smelt  her  wen  she  come,  but  could  not  so  believe, 
not  bein'  used  myself,  I  could  have  borne  it  with  a  thankful 
'art.  But  the  words  she  spoke  of  Mrs.  Harris,  lambs  could 
not  forgive.  No,  Betsey  (with  emotion),  nor  worms  forget.  — 
0  Betsey  Prig !  but  never  shall  you  darken  Sairey's  doors 
again,  you  twining  serpiant ! 


SAM  WELLER'S  VALENTINE. 

Mr.  Weller,  Senior  ;  Sam  Weller  ;  Servant. 

Scene,  the  parlor  of  the  Blue  Boar  Hotel.  kSAM  Weller,  uriting  at  a  table, 
reclining  his  head  on  his  lefi  arm,  and,  while  glancing  sideways  at  the  letters 
he  is  constructing,  forming  with  his  tongue  the  imaginary  characters  to  cor- 
respond. 

MR.  WELLER,  SENIOR  (entering).   Veil,  Sammy. 
Sam.    Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue. 
-Mr.  W.    Wot's  that  you  're  a-doiu'  of;  piu'snit  of  knowl- 
edge under  difficulties,  eh,  Sanimy  1     (Untying  his  shard.) 

3  D 


50  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Sam.  I  've  done  now  {with  slight  embarrassment).  I  've  been 
a-writin'. 

Mr.  W.  So  I  see.  Not  to  any  young  'ooman  I  hope, 
Sammy. 

Sam.    Why,  it  's  no  use  a-sayin'  it  a'n't.    It 's  a  walentine. 

Mr.  W.    a  what  1      (Horror-stricken. ) 

Sam.    a  walentine. 

Mr.  W.  Samivel,  Samivel,  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  ha'  done 
it.  Arter  the  warnin'  you  've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious  pro- 
pensities ;  arter  all  I  've  said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery  sub- 
ject ;  arter  actwally  seein'  and  bein'  in  the  company  o'  your 
own  mother-in-law,  vich  I  should  ha'  thought  wos  a  moral 
lesson  as  no  man  could  never  ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin'  day  ! 
I  did  n't  think  you  'd  ha'  done  it,  Sammy ;  I  did  n't  think 
you  'd  ha'  done  it ! 

Sam.    Wot 's  the  matter  now  ? 

Mr.  W.  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy  ;  it  '11  be  a  wery  agonizin' 
trial  to  me  at  my  time  of  life,  but  I  'm  pretty  tough,  that  's 
vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked,  wen  the 
farmer  said  he  was  afeer'd  he  should  be  obliged  to  kill  him  for 
the  London  market. 

SAii.    Wot  '11  be  a  trial  1 

Mr.  W.  To  see  you  married,  Sammy  ;  to  see  you  a  deluded 
•wictim,  and  thinkin'  in  your  innocence  that  it  's  all  wery 
capital.  It  's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a  father's  feelin's,  that  'ere, 
Sammy. 

Sa3I.  Nonsense.  I  a'n't  a-goin'  to  get  married,  don't 
fret  yourself  about  that ;  I  know  you  're  a  judge  o'  these 
things.     Fill  your  pipe,  and  I  '11  read  you  the  letter,  —  there  ! 

Mr.  W.  (filling  his  pipe).    Fire  away  ! 

Sam  (dipping  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  corrections,  begins 
with  a  very  theatrical  air).     "  Lovely  "  — 

Mr.  W.  Stop.  (Rings  the  bell.  A  servant  appears.)  Bring  me 
a  match.  {Servant  returns  with  one.  Mb.  W.  lights  his  pipe.)  Go  on, 
Sammy. 

Sam.    "  Lovely  creetur." 

Mr.  W.   'T  a'n't  in  poetry,  is  it  1 


SAM   WELLEB'S   VALENTINE.  51 

Sam.    No,  no. 

Mr.  W.  Wery  glad  to  hear  it.  Poetry  's  uuuat'ral ;  no 
man  ever  talked  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on  boxin'  day,  or  War- 
ren's blackin',  or  Rowland's  oil,  or  some  o'  them  low  fellows ; 
never  you  let  yourself  down  to  talk  poetry,  my  boy.  Begin 
ag'in,  Sammy. 

Sam.    "  Lovely  creetur  i  feel  myself  a  dammed  "  — 

Mr.  W.    That  a'n't  proper.      (Taking  his  pipe  Jrom  his  mouth.) 

Sam.  No,  it  a'n't  "dammed"  {holding  the  letter  up  to  the  light), 
it  's  "  shamed" ;  there  's  a  blot  there.  "  I  feel  myself 
ashamed." 

;Mr.  W.    Wery  good.     Go  on. 

Sam.  "Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir" —  I  for- 
get what  this  here  word  is.      {Scratching  his  head  with  his  pen.) 

Mr.  W.    Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then  1 

Sam.  So  I  am  a-lookin'  at  it,  but  there  's  another  blot. 
Here  's  a  c,  and  a  i,  and  a  d. 

Mr.  W.    Circumwented,  p'r'aps. 

Sam.    No,  it  a'n't  that ;  circumscribed  ;  that 's  it. 

Mr.  W.  {gravely).  That  a'n't  as  good  a  word  as  "circum- 
wented," Sammy. 

Sam.    Think  not  1 

Mr.  W.    Nothin'  like  it. 

Sam.    But  don't  you  think  it  means  more  1 

Mr.  W.  Veil,  p'r'aps  it  is  a  more  tenderer  word.  Go  on, 
Sammy. 

Sam.  "Feel  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed  in  a 
dressin'  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal,  and  nothin'  but  it." 

Mr.  W.    That  's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment.    {Removing  his  pipe.) 

Sam.    Yes,  I  think  it  is  rayther  good. 

Mr.  W.  Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  stylo  of  writin'  is,  that  there 
a'n't  no  callin'  names  in  it,  —  no  Wenuses,  nor  nothin'  o'  that 
kind.  Wot  's  the  good  o'  callin'  a  young  'ooman  a  Wenus  or 
a  angel,  Sammy  1 

Sam.    Ah  !  what,  indeed  ? 

Mr.  W.  You  might  jist  as  well  call  her  a  gi-iffin,  or  a  uni- 
corn, or  a  king's  arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  well  known  to 
be  a  collection  o'  fabulous  animals. 


52  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Sam.    Just  as  well. 

Mr.  W.    Drive  on,  Sammy. 

Sam.    "  Afore  I  see  jou  I  thought  all  women  was  alike." 

Mr.  W.    So  they  are. 

Sam.  "  But  now,  now  I  find  what  a  reg'lar  soft-headed, 
inkred'lous  turnip  I  must  ha'  been  ;  for  there  a'n't  nobody  like 
you,  though  /like  you  better  than  nothin'  at  all."  —  I  thought 
it  best  to  make  that  rayther  strong.  (Looking  up.  Mr.  Weller 
nods  approvingly.)  "  So  I  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary, 
my  dear,  —  as  the  genTm'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked 
out  of  a  Sunday,  —  to  tell  you  that  the  first  and  only  time  I 
see  you,  your  likeness  was  took  on  my  'art  in  much  quicker 
time  and  brighter  colors  than  ever  a  likeness  was  took  by  a 
profeel  macheen  (wich  p'r'aps  you  may  have  heered  on,  Mary 
my  dear)  altho'  it  does  finish  a  portrait  and  put  a  frame  and 
glass  on  complete  with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by 
and  all  in  two  minutes  and  a  quarter." 

Mr.  W.  [dubiously).  I  am  afeered  that  werges  on  the  poetical, 
Sammy. 

Sam.  No,  it  don't.  "  Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your 
walentine  and  think  over  what  I  've  said.  —  My  dear  Maiy,  I 
will  now  conclude."     That 's  all. 

Mr.  W.    That 's  rayther  a  sudden  pull  up,  a'n't  it,  Sammy  1 

Sam.  Not  a  bit  on  it ;  she  '11  vish  there  wos  more,  and 
that  's  the  great  art  o'  letter-writin'. 

Mr.  W.  Well,  there  's  somethin'  in  that ;  and  I  wish  your 
mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her  conwersation  on  the  same 
gen-teel  principle  !     A'n't  you  a-goin'  to  sign  it  1 

Sam.    That 's  the  difficulty.     I  don't  know  what  to  sign  it. 

Mr.  W.    Sign  it  "  Veller." 

Sam.  Won't  do.  Never  sign  a  walentine  with  your  own 
name. 

Mr.  W.  Sign  it  "Pickvick,"  then  ;  it  's  a  wery  good  name, 
and  a  easy  one  to  spell. 

Sam.  The  wery  thing.  I  could  end  with  a  werse  ;  what  do 
you  think '? 

Mr.  W.    I  don't  like  it,  Sam.    I  never  know'd  a  respectable 


SCENE   FROM    "THE   SPANISH   GYPSY."  53 

coachman  as  wrote  poetiy,  'ccpt  one,  as  made  an  affectin'  copy 
o'  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung  for  highway  robbery  ; 
and  he  w^as  only  a  Cambervell  man,  so  even  that 's  no 
rule. 

Saji.    I  '11  just  wentur'  a  wery  short  one.      (Beads  as  he  signs.) 

•'  Your  love-sick 
Pickwick." 

There!    I  had  it  sup'scribed  afore  you  come.    (Reads.)   "Mary, 
Housemaid,  at  "Sir.  Nupkins's  Mayor's,  Ipswich,  Suffolk."    I  '11 
take  it  right  down  to  the  Gen'ral  Post. 
Mr.  W.    All  right,  Sammy. 


SCENE    FROM    "THE    SPANISH    GYPSY." 

ScEXE,  a  tavern  court  in  Bedmar,  Spain.  Present,  the  IIoST  ;  JuAN,  a 
minstrel  or  troubadour;  and  Blasco,  a  silversmith.  Enter  Lopez,  a 
soldier, 

LOPEZ.    At  your  service,  sirs. 
Juan.    Ha,  Lopez  %     Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.     What  news  of  the  wars  1 

Lopez.    Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

Juan.    Then  spit  it  forth. 

Host.  Sit,  captain  ;  here  's  a  cup 

Fresh-filled.     \\Tiat  news  1 

Lopez.  'T  is  bad.     We  make  no  sally. 

We  sit  still  here,  and  wait  whate'er  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

Host.  Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 

Lopez.    Glad,  will  they  be  ]     But  I  'm  not  glad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege. 
Instead  of  laying  one.     Therefore  —  meantime  — 
He  will  bo  manied  straightway. 

Host.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hour-glass  ;  turn  it  down 


54  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

The  other  way,  't  will  stand  as  well,  and  say 
The  Duke  w^ill  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior? 
The  holy  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don  1 

Lopez.    0,  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad, 
As  thick  as  nuts  o'erturned.     No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say  't  was  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent : 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.     From  Rome,  says  Quintin. 
From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 
Some  say  't  is  all  a  pretext,  —  say  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt, 
Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk  : 
'T  was  Don  Diego  said  that,  —  so  says  Bias  ; 
Last  week,  he  said  — 

Juan.  0,  do  without  the  "  said  "  ! 

Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 
I  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  self-same  spot. 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

Lopez.    Santiago  !     Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

Blasco.  Nay,  sir,  speak  on  ! 

I  like  your  matter  well.     I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.     "Who  is  the  bride  1 

Lopez.    One  that  some  day  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 
A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 
Her  name,  whoever  gave  it,  is  Fedalma. 
No  harm  in  that.     But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 
In  wedding  her.     And  that 's  the  simple  truth. 

Juan.    Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion. 
Fie,  Lopez  ;  thou,  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword, 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves  ! 
He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonors  her. 

Lopez.  Nay,  I  said  naught  against  her. 


SCENE   FROM   "THE   SPANISH   GYPSY."  55 

Juan.  Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  -with  wits, 
And  spear  thee  through  and  through  ere  thou  couldst  draw 
The  bluntest  word.     Yes,  yes  ;  consult  thy  spurs. 
Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence, 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 
Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  chivalric  tune. 
He  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 
Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma.     He  enshrines 
Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  worship 
And  for  his  own,  —  will  guard  her  from  the  world, 
Nay,  his  profoner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 
The  place  of  his  religion.     He  does  well. 
Naught  can  come  closer  to  the  poet's  strain. 

Host.    Or  fm-ther  from  their  practice,  Juan,  eh  1 
If  thou  art  a  specimen  1 

Juan.  Wrong,  my  Lorenzo  ! 

Touching  Fedalma,  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

Lopez.    By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock  1     Thou  meanest  that  1 

Juan.    Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 
Growing  descriptive  ;  't  is  unnatural. 
I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward. 
Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come  ;  but  the  poor  poet 
Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  find 
A  heaven,  save  in  his  worship.     He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 
Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because  't  is  lovingness  ;  as  beggai's  joy, 
Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 
To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 
There  's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worsh5[)S  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love. 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 


56  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds, 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.     Digest  that,  friend, 
Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

Lopez.  I  ? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword,  and  j^eddle  not  in  thinking. 
'T  is  Father  Marcos  says  she  '11  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water  ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel ;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

Juan  (striking  a  chord).  Tusll  ! 

Lopez.  If  that 's  a  hint 

The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song. 
Sing,  then  ! 

Host.  Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 


WAITING  FOR  AN  INTERVIEW. 

Fustian  ;  Daggerwood  ;  Servant. 

Fustian  sittinci  in  one  chair,  Daggerwood  asleep  in  another.    The  clock 

strikes  eleven. 

FUSTIAN.  Eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven  1  Zounds !  eleven 
o'clock,  and  here  I  have  been  waiting  ever  since  nine 
for  an  intei'view  with  the  manager.  (Servant  crosses.)  Hark 
ye,  young  man,  is  your  master  visible  yet  ] 

Servant.    Sir  ] 

Fus.    I  say,  can  I  see  your  master? 

Serv.    He  has  two  gentlemen  with  him  at  present,  sir. 

Fus.  Ay,  the  old  answer.  Who  is  this  asleep  here  in  the 
chair  1 

Serv.    0,  that,  sir,  is  a  gentleman  who  wants  to  come  out. 


WAITING   FOR   AN  INTERVIEW.  67 

Fus.  Come  out  !  then  wake  him,  and  open  the  door.  Gad  ! 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  this  house  is  to  get  in. 

Serv.  Ha,  ha !  I  mean  he  wants  to  appear  on  the  stage, 
sir ;  't  is  Mr.  Sylvester  Daggerwood,  of  the  Dunstable  com- 
pany. 

Fus.  Oho  !  a  country  candidate  for  a  Loudon  tnmcheon, 
a  nursling  Prince  of  Denmark ;  he  snores  like  a  tinker ;  fatigued 
with  his  journey,  I  suppose. 

Serv.  No,  sir.  He  has  taken  a  nap  in  this  room  for  these 
five  mornings,  but  has  not  been  able  to  obtain  an  audience 
here  yet. 

Fus.    No,  nor  at  Dunstable,  neither,  I  take  it. 

Serv.  I  am  so  loath  to  disturb  him,  poor  gentleman,  that  I 
never  wake  him  till  a  full  half-hour  after  my  master  is  gone 
out. 

Fus.  Upon  my  honor,  that 's  very  obliging  !  I  must  keep 
watch  here,  I  find,  like  a  lynx.  Well,  fri&nd,  you  '11  let 
your  master  know  Mr.  Fustfau  is  here,  when  the  two  gentle- 
men have  left  him  at  leisure. 

Serv.    The  moment  they  make  their  exit.  [Exit. 

Fus.  Make  their  exit !  This  fellow  must  have  lived  here 
some  time,  by  his  language,  and,  I  '11  warrant  him,  lies  by 
rote  like  a  parrot.  (Sits  down  and  pulls  out  a  manuscript.)  If  I 
could  nail  this  manager  for  a  minute,  I  'd  read  him  such  a 
tragedy. 

Daggerwood  (dreaming).  "  Nay,  and  thou  'It  mouth,  —  I  '11 
rant  as  well  as  thou." 

Fus.  Eh  !  he  's  talking  in  his  sleep  !  Acting  Hamlet  be- 
fore twelve  tallow  candles  in  the  country. 

Dag.    "  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  — 

Fus.  Yes,  he  's  at  it.  —  Let  me  see.  (Turning  over  the  leaves  of 
his  play.)     I  think  there  's  no  doubt  of  its  running. 

D\G.  (dreaming).  "That's  the  question," —"  who  would 
fardels  bear,"  — 

Fus.  Zounds!  There's  no  bearing  you!  — His  grace's 
patronage  will  fill  half  the  boxes,  and  I  '11  waiTant  wo  '11  stuff 
the  critics  in  the  pit. 


58  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Dag.  (dreaming).  "  To  groan  and  sweat 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make." 

Fus.  Quietus  !  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  could  make 
yours.  —  The  Countess  of  Crambo  insists  on  the  best  places 
for  the  first  night  of  performance.  She  '11  sit  in  the  stage 
box. 

Dag.  (still  dreaming).     "  With  a  bare  bodkin  ! " 

Fus.  0  the  deuce  !  there 's  no  enduring  this  !  Sir,  sir,  do 
you  intend  to  sleep  any  more  1 

Dag.  (waking).  Eh!  whati  when?  "Methought  I  heard 
a  voice  say,  Sleep  no  more  ! " 

Fus.  Faith,  sir,  you  have  heard  something  very  like  it. 
That  voice  was  mine. 

Dag.  Sir,  I  am  your  servant  to  command,  Sylvester  Dag- 
gerwood,  whose  benefit  is  fixed  for  the  11th  of  June,  by 
particular  desire  of  several  persons  of  distinction.  You  'd 
make  an  excellent  Macbeth,  sir. 

Fus.    Sir! 

Dag.  "  Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep,  the  innocent  sleep, 
balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course,"  —  nay, 
and  sometimes  her  first  course,  too ;  when  a  dinner  is  una- 
voidably deferred  by  your  humble  servant,  Sylvester  Dag- 
gerwood. 

Fus.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  you  should  ever  have  occasion  to 
postpone  so  pleasant  a  performance. 

Dag.  Eating,  sir,  is  a  most  popular  entertainment  for  man 
and  horse,  as  I  may  say  ;  but  I  am  apt  to  appear  nice,  sir,  — 
and  somehow  or  other,  I  never  could  manage  to  sit  down  to 
dinner  in  bad  company. 

Fus.    Has  your  company  been  bad,  then,  of  late,  sir  1 

Dag.  Very  bad  indeed,  sir,  —  the  Dunstable  company, 
where  I  have  eight  shillings  a  week,  four  bits  of  candle,  one 
wife,  three  shirts,  and  nine  children. 

Fus.    A  very  numerous  family. 

Dag.  a  crowded  house  to  be  sure,  sir ;  but  not  very  prof- 
itable. Mrs.  Daggerwood,  a  fine  figure,  but  unfortunately, 
stutters,  so  of  no  use  in  the  theatrical  line ;    children  too 


WAITING   FOR   AN  INTERVIEW.  59 

young  to  make  a  dthut,  except  my  eldest,  Master  xVpollo 
Daggerwood,  a  youth  ouly  eight  years  old,  who  has  twice 
made  his  appearance  in  Tom  Thumb,  to  an  overflowiug 
and  brilliant  barn  —  house,  I  mean,  with  unbounded  ap- 
plause. 

Fus.  Have  you  been  long  on  the  stage,  Mr.  Dagger- 
wood  % 

Dag.  Fifteen  years  since  I  first  smelt  the  lamp,  sir ;  my 
father  was  an  eminent  button-maker  at  Birmingham,  and 
meant  me  to  marry  Miss  Molly  Mop,  daughter  to  a  rich 
director  of  coal-works  at  Wolverhampton  ;  but  I  had  a  soul 
above  buttons,  and  abhorred  the  idea  of  a  mercenary  mai'- 
riage.  I  panted  for  a  liberal  profession  ;  so  ran  away  from 
my  father,  and  engaged  with  a  travelling  company  of  come- 
dians. In  my  travels  I  had  soon  the  happiness  of  forming 
a  romantic  attachment  with  the  present  Mrs.  Daggerwood, 
wife  to  Sylvester  Daggerwood,  your  humble  servant  to  com- 
mand, whose  benefit  is  fixed  for  the  11th  of  June,  by  desire 
of  several  persons  of  distinction ;  so  you  see,  sir,  I  have  a 
taste. 

Fus.  Have  you  %  then  sit  down  and  I  '11  read  you  my  trag- 
edy ;  I  'm  determined  some  one  shall  hear  it  before  I  go  out 
of  this  house.      [Sits  down.) 

Dag.  a  tragedy ;  sir,  I  '11  be  ready  for  you  in  a  moment ; 
let  me  prepare  for  woe.  {Takes  out  a  very  ragged  pocket-handkerchief .) 
"This  handkerchief  did  an  Egyptian  to  my  mother  give." 

Fus.  Faith,  I  should  think  so ;  and  to  all  appearance  one 
of  the  Norwood  party. 

Dag.  Now,  sir,  for  your  title,  and  then  for  the  dramatis 
personce. 

Fus.  The  title,  I  think,  will  strike ;  the  fashion  of  plays, 
you  know,  is  to  do  away  with  old  prejudices,  and  to  rescue 
certain  characters  from  the  illiberal  odium  with  which  custom 
has  marked  them.  Thus  we  have  a  generous  Israelite,  an 
amiable  cynic,  and  so  on.  Now,  sir,  I  call  my  play  "  Tho 
Humane  Footpad." 

Dag.    Whati 


60  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Fus.  There  's  a  title  for  you  !  Is  n't  it  happy  1  Eh  !  how 
do  you  like  my  "  Footpad  "  1 

Dag.  Humph  !  I  think  he  11  strike,  —  but  then  he  ought 
to  be  properly  execiited. 

Fus.  0,  sir,  let  me  alone  for  that.  An  exception  to  a  gen- 
eral rule  is  the  grand  secret  of  dramatic  composition.  Mine 
is  a  freebooter  of  benevolence,  and  plunders  with  sentiment. 

Dag.  There  may  be  something  in  that,  and  for  my  part,  I 
was  always  with  Shakespeare,  —  "Who  steals  my  purse,  steals 
trash."  I  never  had  any  weighty  reasons  for  thinking  other- 
wise. Now,  sir,  as  we  say,  please  to  "leave  off  your  hon-ible 
faces,  and  begin." 

Fus.    My  horrible  faces  ! 

Dag.    Come,  "  we  '11  to  't  like  Fi'ench  falconers." 

Fus.  (reading).     Scene  first.  —  A  dark  wood,  —  night. 

Dag.    a  very  awful  beginning. 

Fus.  {reading).     The  moon  behind  a  clovid. 

Dag.  That 's  new.  An  audience  never  saw  a  moon  behind 
a  cloud  before,  —  but  it  will  be  very  hard  to  paint. 

Fus.  Don't  interrupt.  Where  was  11  0,  behind  a 
cloud. 

Dag.    "The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces,"  — 

Fus.    Hey,  the  deuce  !  what  are  you  at  1 

Dag.  Beg  pardon ;  but  that  speech  never  comes  into  my 
head  but  it  rfms  away  with  me.     Proceed. 

Fus.  (reading).      Enter  — 

Dag.    "  The  solemn  temples,"  — 

Fus.    Nay,  then,  I  've  done. 

Dag.    So  have  I.     I  'm  dumb. 

Fus.  (reading).     Enter  Egbert,  musing. 

Dag.   0.  P.  1 

Fus.   Pshaw  !  what  does  that  signify  1 

Dag.    Not  much,  —  "the  great  globe  itself." 

Fus.  (reading).  Egbert,  musing;  "Clouded  in  night  I 
come  "  — 

Dag.  (starting  tip).  "  The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous 
palaces,  the  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself,"  &c.,  &c. 


WAITING   FOR  AN  INTER\^EW.  61 

Fus.  {gets  up).  He  's  mad  !  a  bedlamite  !  raves  like  a  Lear, 
and  foams  out  a  folio  of  Shakespeare  without  drawing  breath. 
I  'm  almost  afraid  to  stop  in  the  room  with  him.  (Enter  Ser- 
vant.) Oh  !  I  'm  glad  you  've  come,  friend,  now  I  shall  be 
delivered.     Your  master  would  be  glad  to  see  me,  I  wan-ant. 

Servant.    My  master  is  just  gone  out,  sir. 

Fus.    Gone  out  ! 

Dag.    "  0,  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange  ! " 

Fus.  What !  without  seeing  me,  who  have  been  waiting  for 
him  these  three  hours  1 

Dag.  Three  hours  !  Pugh  !  I  've  slept  here  these  five  morn- 
ings, in  this  old  arm-chaii*. 

Fus.  Pretty  treatment !  Pretty  treatment,  truly  !  To  be 
kept  here  half  the  morning,  kicking  my  heels  in  a  manager's 
anteroom,  shut  up  with  a  mad  Dunstable  actor. 

Dag.  Mad !  Zounds,  sir !  I  'd  have  you  to  know  that, 
"  when  the  wind  is  southerly,  1  know  a  hawk  from  a  hand- 
saw." 

Fus.  Tell  your  master,  friend, — tell  your  master —  But 
no  matter ;  he  don't  catch  me  here  again,  that 's  all.  I  '11  go 
home,  turn  my  play  into  a  pageant,  put  a  triumphal  proces- 
sion at  the  end  on  't,  and  bring  it  out  at  one  of  the  winter 
theatres.  [Exit. 

Dag.  Young  man,  you  know  me.  I  shall  come  to  my  old 
chair  again  to-morrow,  but  must  go  to  Dunstable  the  day 
after,  for  a  week,  to  finish  my  engagement.  Wish  for  an  in- 
terview, —  inclination  to  tread  the  London  boards,  and  so  on. 
You  remember  my  name,  —  Mr.  Sylvester  Daggerwood,  whose 
benefit  is  fixed  for  the  1 1th  of  June,  by  particular  desire  of 
several  persons  of  distinction. 

Serv.    I  shall  be  sure  to  tell  him,  sir. 

Dag.  "I  find  thee  apt; 

And  duller  wouldst  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  at  ease  on  Lethe  wharf, 
Wouldst  thou  not  stir  in  this."     Open  the  street  door. 
"  Go  on  !  I  '11  follow  thee." 


62  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 


PAUL   PRY  AT   DOUBLEDOT'S. 

DoUBLEDOT,  innkeeper ;   Simon,  servant  of  Colonel  Hardy  ; 

Paul  Puy. 

SIMON.    Ha  !   here  comes  Mr.  Paul  Pry. 
DouBLEDOT.    Plague  take  Mr.  Paul  Pry  !     He  is  one  of 
those  idle,  meddling  fellows,  who,  having  no  employment,  are 
perpetually  interfering  in  other  people's  affairs. 

Simon.  Ay,  and  he 's  inquisitive  into  all  matters,  gi'eat  or 
small. 

DouB.  Inquisitive  !  Why,  he  makes  no  scruple  to  question 
you  respecting  your  most  private  concerns.  Then  he  will 
weary  you  to  death  with  a  long  story  about  the  loss  of  a 
sleeve-button,  or  some  such  idle  matter ;  and  so  he  passes  his 
days,  "  dropping  in,"  as  he  calls  it,  from  house  to  house,  at 
the  most  unreasonable  times,  to  the  annoyance  of  every 
family  in  the  village.     But  I  '11  soon  get  rid  of  him. 

Enter  Pry. 

Pry.  Ha !  how  d'  ye  do,  Mr.  Doubledot  1  Just  dropped 
in, — I  hope  I  don't  intrude. 

DouB.  Very  busy, — very  busy  indeed,  Mr.  Pry,  and  have 
scarcely  time  to  say,  "  Pretty  well,  thank  you." 

Pry.  Ha  !  Simon,  you  here  !  Rather  early  in  the  morn- 
ing  to  be  in  a  public  house,  —  sent  here  with  a  message  from 
your  master,  perhaps.  I  say,  Simon,  whenever  a  wedding 
takes  place,  I  suppose  your  master  will  put  you  all  into  new 
liveries,  eh] 

Simon.    Can't  say,  sir. 

Pry.  Well,  I  think  he  might.  Between  ourselves,  Simon, 
it  won't  be  long  before  you  want  'em,  eh  1 

Simon.  That 's  master's  business,  sir,  and  neither  yours 
nor  mine. 

Pry.  Mr.  Simon,  behave  yourself,  or  I  shall  complain  of 
you  to  the  Colonel.  Apropos,  Simon,  that's  an  uncommon 
fine  leg  of  mutton  the  butcher  has  just  sent  to  your  house. 
It  weighs  thirteen  pounds  five  ounces. 


PAUL   PRY  AT   DOUBLEDOT'S.  63 

DouB.    And  how  do  you  know  that  1 

Pry.  I  asked  the  butcher.  I  say,  Simon,  is  it  for  roasting 
or  boihng  1 

Simon.  Half  and  half,  with  the  chill  taken  off.  There 's 
your  answer.  [Exit. 

Pry.  That's  an  uncommon  ill-behaved  servant.  Well,  since 
you  say  you  are  busy,  I  won't  interrupt  you  ;  only,  as  I  was 
passing,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  drop  in. 

DouB.  Then  now  you  may  drop  out  again.  The  London 
coach  will  be  in  presently,  and  — 

Pry.  No  passengers  by  it  to-day,  for  I  have  been  to  the  hill 
to  look  for  it. 

DouB.  Did  you  expect  any  one  by  it,  that  you  were  so 
anxious  1 

Pry.  No;  but  I  make  it  my  business  to  see  the  coach 
come  in  every  day.    I  can't  bear  to  be  idle. 

DouB.    Useful  occupation,  truly. 

Pry.    Always  see  it  go  out ;  have  done  it  these  ten  years. 

DoDB.   Tiresome  blockhead  !    Well,  good  morning  to  you. 

Pry.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Doubledot ;  you  don't  appear  to 
be  very  full  here. 

DouB.    No,  no. 

Pry,  Ha !  you  are  at  a  heavy  rent.  I  've  often  thought  of 
that.  No  supporting  such  an  establishment  without  a  deal 
of  custom.  If  it 's  not  an  impertinent  question,  don't  you 
find  it  rather  a  hard  matter  to  make  both  ends  meet  when 
Christmas  comes  1 

DouB.  If  it  is  n't  asking  an  impertinent  question,  what 's 
that  to  you  1 

Pry.  0,  nothing,  only  some  folks  have  the  luck  of  it. 
They  have  just  taken  in  a  nobleman's  family  at  the  Green 
Dragon. 

DouB.    What 's  that  1     A  nobleman  at  the  Green  Dragon  1 

Pry.  Travelling  carriage  and  four.  Thiee  servants  on  tlio 
dickey  and  an  outrider,  all  in  blue  liveries.  They  dine  and 
stop  all  ni<.dit.  A  pretty  bill  there  will  be  to-morrow,  for  tho 
bervuuttt  are  not  on  board  wages. 


64  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

DouB.  Plague  take  the  Green  Dragon  !  How  did  you 
discover  that  they  are  not  on  board  wages  1 

Pry.  I  was  curious  to  know,  and  asked  one  of  them.  You 
know  I  never  miss  anything  for  want  of  asking.  'T  is  no 
fault  of  mine  the  nabob  is  not  here. 

DouB.    Why,  what  had  you  to  do  with  it  1 

Pry.  You  know  I  never  forget  my  friends.  I  stopped  the 
carriage  as  it  was  coming  down  hill  —  stopped  it  dead  —  and 
said  that  if  his  lordship  —  I  took  him  for  a  lord  at  first  — 
that  if  his  lordship  intended  to  make  any  stay,  he  could  n't 
do  better  than  go  to  Doubledot's. 

DouB.    Well! 

Pry.  Well,  —  would  you  believe  if?  —  out  pops  a  saffron- 
colored  face  from  the  carriage  window,  and  says,  "  You  're  an 
impudent  rascal  for  stopping  my  carriage,  and  I  '11  not  go 
there  if  another  inn  is  to  be  found  within  ten  miles  of  it." 

DouB.  There  !  that  comes  of  your  confounded  meddling. 
If  you  had  not  interfered,  I  should  have  stood  an  equal  chance 
with  the  Green  Dragon. 

Pry.    I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  did  it  for  the  best. 

DouB.  Did  it  for  the  best,  indeed  !  Meddlesome  fellow  ! 
By  your  officious  attempts  to  serve,  you  do  more  mischief  in 
the  neighborhood  than  the  exciseman,  the  apothecary,  and 
the  attorney  all  together. 

Pry.  Well,  there 's  gratitude !  Now,  really,  I  must  go. 
Good  morning.  May  I  be  hanged  if  ever  I  do  an  act  of  kind- 
ness again  ! 

DouB.  I  've  got  rid  of  him  at  last,  thank  Heaven  !  (^Te 
returns.)     Well,  what  now? 

Pry.  I  've  dropped  one  of  my  gloves,  —  nay,  that 's  very 
odd ;  here  it  is  in  my  hand  all  the  time. 

DouB.    Get  out  of  my  house  ! 

Pry.  Come,  that 's  civil !  Eh  !  there 's  the  postman  !  I 
wonder  whether  the  Parkinses  have  got  letters  again  to-day  ! 
They  have  had  letters  every  day  this  week,  and  I  can't  for 
the  life  of  me  think  what  they  can —  Apropos,  talking 
of  letters,   here's  one  I  took  from  him  last  week,  for  the 


THE   DOGE'S   SENTENCE.  65 

Colonel's  daughter,  and  I  have  always  forgotten  to  give  it  to 
her.     I  dare  say  it  is  not  of  much  importance.    (Peeping  into  it.) 

"Likely unexpected — affectionate."     I    can't    make   it   out. 

No  matter,  I  '11  contrive  to  take  it  to  the  house.  By  the  by, 
though,  I  've  a  deal  to  do  to-day,  — buy  an  ounce  of  snuff ;  fetch 
my  umbrella,'  which  I  left  to  be  mended ;  drop  in  at  old  Mr. 
Witherton's,  and  ask  him  how  his  tooth  is.  I  have  often 
thought  that  if  that  tooth  was  mine,  I  'd  have  it  out.       {Exit. 


THE  DOGE'S   SENTENCE. 
Scene,  the  Hall  of  Council,  Venice.    Enter  Dogb  as  prisoner. 

CHIEF  SENATOR.    Doge,  —  for  such  still  you  are,  and 
by  the  law 
Must  be  considered,  —  we  have  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber,  at  full  length. 
The  proofs  against  you.     What  have  you  to  say 
In  yom-  defence  ] 

Doge.  What  shall  I  say  to  ye, 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  1 
You  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executioners  !     Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

C.  Sen.  You  decline  to  plead  then  1 

Doge.    I  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognize  your  legal  power  to  try  me. 
Show  me  the  law  ! 

C.  Sen.  On  great  emergencies 

The  law  must  be  remodelled  or  amended. 
Your  sin  hath  made  us  make  a  law  'gainst  such 
As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny  ; 
Not  even  contented  with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  convert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword  ! 
Was  not  the  j^luce  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye  1 
^Vhat  's  nobler  than  the  seigniory  of  Venice  1 


66  PUBLIC   AXD   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Doge.    The  seigniory  of  Venice  !    You  betrayed  me  ! 
You,  — you  who  sit  there,  - — traitors  as  ye  are  ! 
You  drew  me  from  my  honorable  toils 
In  distant  lands,  on  flood,  in  field,  in  cities ; 
You  singled  me  out,  like  a  victim,  to 
Stand  crowned,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  altar, 
Where  you  alone  could  minister.      I  knew  not, 
Sought  not,  wished  not,  dreamed  not  the  election, 
Which  reached  me  first  at  Rome  ;  and  I  obeyed ; 
But  found,  on  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 
You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  journey  to  the  capital,  curtailed 
And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke.     All  this  I  bore,  and  would 
Have  borne,  had  not  my  very  hearth  been  stained 
By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry, 
And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you,  — 
Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal  I 

C.  Sen.    And  can  it  be  that  the  great  Doge  of  Venice 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years 
And  honors  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ] 

Doge.    A  spark  creates  the  flame  ;  't  is  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  —  and  mine  was  full 
Already.     You  oppressed  the  prince  and  people  ; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  —  and  have  failed.    Pause  not. 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  none. 

C.  Sen.    You  do  confess,  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal  ] 

Doge.    I  confess  to  have  failed. 

C.  Sex.  You  do  not,  then,  in  aught  arraign  our  equity  1 

Doge.    Noble  Venetians,  stir  me  not  with  questions. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 


THE  DOGE'S   SENTENCE.  67 

And  please  your  enemies,  —  a  host  already. 

'T  is  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo ; 

But  walls  have  ears,  —  nay,  more,  they  have  tongues,  —  and  if 

There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  overleap  them, 

You  who  condemn  me,  —  you  who  fear  and  slay  me,  — 

Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  yom-  gi-aves 

What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil. 

The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souls  ! 

Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 

A  danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 

Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 

To  make  it  famous  ;  for  true  words  are  things  ; 

And  dying  men's  are  things  which  long  outlive, 

And  oftentimes  avenge  them. 

Let  me  die  calmly.     You  may  gi-ant  me  this  !  — 

I  deny  nothing,  —  defend  nothing,  —  nothing 

I  ask  of  you  but  silence  for  myself, 

And  sentence  from  the  court ! 

C.  Sex.    Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 
Count  of  Yal  di  Marino,  senator. 
And  sometime  general  of  the  fleet  and  army, 
Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 
Intrusted  by  the  state  with  high  employments, 
Even  to  the  highest,  —  listen  to  the  sentence  ! 
Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs, 
And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt 
Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 
Until  this  trial,  —  the  decree  is  death  ! 
The  place  wherein,  as  Doge,  thou  shouldst  be  painted, 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death-black  veil 
Flung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath,  — 
"  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

Doge.    What  crimes  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 
So  that  the  contcmplator  might  approve, 


68  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Or  at  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ] 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired, 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause,  —  it  is  your  history. 

C.  Sex.    Time  must  reply  to  that.     Our  sons  will  judge 
Their  fathers'  judgment,  which  I  now  pronounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap. 
Thou  shalt  be  led  hence  to  the  Giants'  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested  ; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed, 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off ;  and  Heaven  have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul ! 

Doge.  Is  this  the  sentence  1 

C.  Sen.    It  is. 
;'    Doge.  I  can  endure  it.     And  the  time  1 

C.  Sen.    Must  be  immediate.    Make  thy  peace  with  God, 
Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  His  presence  ! 

Doge.    I  am  there  already  ;  and  my  blood  will  rise 
Before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it ! 


THE  RIVAL  ORATORS. 

Thomas  Tkotter,  a  large  boy,  with  a  big  voice,  and  Samuel  Sly,  a  small 
boy,  whose  vocal  organ  is  pitched  on  a  high  key. 

Scene,  the  platform  of  a  School-room. 

TnOMAS  enters  and  makes  his  bow  to  the  audience,  followed  by  Samuel,  who 
goes  through  the  same  ceremony  a  little  in  his  rear. 

TOjM  {turning  partially  round).      What  do  you  want  here  1 
Sam.    I  want  to  speak  my  piece,  to  be  sure. 
T.    Well,  you  will  please  to  wait  until  /  get  through ;  it 's 
my  turn  now. 

S.  No,  it  is  n't  your  turn,  eithei",  my  learned  friend ;  ex- 
cuse me  for  contradicting,  but  if  I  don't  stand  up  for  my 
rights,  nobody  else  will.     My  turn  came  before  that  fellow's 


THE  RIVAL   ORATORS.  69 

who  said  "his  voice  was  still  for  war";  but  I  could  n't  thiuk 
how  my  speech  began  then,  and  he  got  the  start  of  me. 

T.  Very  well ;  if  you  were  not  ready  when  your  turn 
came,  that 's  your  fault,  and  not  mine.  Go  to  your  seat,  and 
don't  bother  me  any  more. 

S.  "Well,  that 's  cool,  I  declare,  —  as  cool  as  a  load  of  ice 
in  February.     Can't  you  ask  some  other  favor,  Mr.  Trotter] 

T.    Yes  ;  hold  your  tongue. 

S.  Can't  do  that ;  I  'm  bound  to  get  off  my  speech  first. 
You  see  it 's  running  over  like  a  bottle  of  beer,  and  I  can't 
keep  it  in.     So  here  goes  :  — 

"  My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  Hills 
My  father  feeds  —  " 

T.  {interrupting  him,  commences  his  piece  in  a  loud  tone).  "  Friends, 
Romans,  countrymen  ! " 

S.    Greeks,  Irishmen,  and  fellow-sojers  ! 

T.    "  Lend  me  your  ears." 

S.    Don't  you  do  it ;   ho  's  got  ears  enough  of  his  own. 

T.    "I  come  to  bury  Cajsar,  not  to  praise  him." 

S.  {mimickinfj  his  gestures).  I  come  to  speak  my  piece,  and  I  '11 
do  it,  Caisar  or  no  Cajsar.     "  My  name  is  Norval  —  " 

T.  {advancing  towards  him  in  a  threatening  attitude).  Sam  Sly,  if 
you  don't  stop  your  fooling  I  '11  put  you  off  the  stage. 

S.  {retreating).  Don't,  don't  you  touch  me,  Tom;  you'll 
joggle  my  piece  all  out  of  me  again. 

T.  Well,  then,  keep  still  until  I  get  through.  {Turns  to  the 
audience.) 

"  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen  !  lend  me  your  ears ; 
I  come  to  bury  Cajsar,  not  to  praise  him." 
S.    I  say.  Tommy,  what  are  you  bl-a-a-a-r-ting  about ;  have 
you  lost  your  calf? 

T.        "The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  t)ones. 
So  let  it  be  with  Cajsar." 
lie  is  again  brought  to  a  stand  hi/  Sasi,  who  is  standing  behind  him,  mimick- 
ing his  gestures  in  a  ludicrous  vianner. 
Now,  Sam,  I  tell  you  to  stop  your  monkey  tjhincs ;    if  you 
don't,  I  '11  make  you  ! 


70  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

S.  You  stop  spouting  about  Csesar,  then,  and  let  me  have 
my  say.  You  need  n't  think  you  can  cheat  me  out  of  my 
rights  because  you  wear  higher-heeled  shoes  than  I  do. 

T.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  sir,  —  nothing  but  your  size 
saves  you  from  a  good  flogging. 

S.  Well,  that  is  a  queer  coincidence,  for  I  can  tell  you  that 
nothing  but  your  size  saves  you  from  a  good  dose  of  Solo- 
mon's panacea.  (To  the  audience.)  I  don't  know  what  can  be 
done  with  such  a  long  legged  fellow,  —  he  's  too  big  to  be 
whipped,  and  he  is  n't  big  enough  to  behave  himself  Now, 
all  keep  still,  and  let  me  begin  again  :  "  My  name  is  Ner- 
val —  " 

T.    "I  come  to  bury  Csesar  —  " 

S.  I  thought  you  'd  buried  him  once,  good  deeds,  bones, 
and  all ;  how  many  more  times  are  you  going  to  do  it  1 

T.  Sam,  I  'm  a  peaceable  fellow ;  but  if  you  go  much  fur- 
ther I  won't  be  responsible  for  the  consequences. 

S.  I  'm  for  piece,  too,  but  it 's  my  piece,  and  not  your  long 
rigmarole  about  Csesar,  that  I  go  in  for.  As  I  said  before, 
"  My  name  is  —  " 

T.  "  The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Csesar  was  ambitious ; 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault, 
And  grievously  hath  Csesar  answered  it." 
S.  (in  a  low  whisper).     I  say,  Tom,  did  you  know  you  had  got 
a  hole  in  your  unwhisperables  1 

T.         "  Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man  — 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Csesar's  funeral." 
S.    This  is  n't  Csesar's  funeral,  —  it 's  the  exhibition  of  the 
Spankertown  Academy,  and  it 's  my  turn  to  officiate,  so  get 
out  with  Csesar.  —  "  My  name  is  Nor  —  " 

T.     "  He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me ; 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man." 
S.    Brutus  be  hanged ;  who  cares  for  what  he  said  1     Come, 


THE  RIVAL   ORATORS.  71 

you  've  sputtered  enough  ;  now  give  me  a  chance  to  say  some- 
thing.    "  My  name  is  —  " 

T.  Come,  Sammy,  don't  interrupt  me  again,  that 's  a  clever 
fellow.  Let  me  finish  my  piece,  and  then  you  shall  have  the 
whole  platform  to  yourself. 

S.  You  're  very  kind,  Mr.  Trotter,  —  altogether  too  kind  ! 
Your  generosity  reminds  me  of  an  Irish  gentleman,  who 
could  n't  live  peaceably  with  his  wife,  and  so  they  agreed  to 
divide  the  house  between  them.  "  Biddy,"  says  he,  "  ye  '11 
jist  be  afther  taking  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  I  '11  kape 
the  inside." 

T.  {to  the  audience).  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  see  it  is  use- 
less for  me  to  attempt  to  proceed,  and  I  trust  you  will  excuse 
me  from  performing  my  part.      {Bows,  and  withdraws.) 

S.  Yes,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  him,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
The  fact  is,  he  means  well  enough  ;  but,  between  you  and  me, 
he  does  n't  know  a  wheelwright  from  a  right  wheel.  I  'm 
sorry  to  say  his  education  has  been  sadly  neglected,  as  you 
all  perceive.  He  has  n't  enjoyed  the  advantages  that  I  have 
for  learning  good  manners.  And,  then,  did  you  ever  hear 
such  a  ridiculous  spouter !  He  might  make  a  very  decent 
town-crier,  or  auctioneer,  or  something  of  that  sort,  —  but  to 
think  of  Tommy  Trotter  pretending  to  be  an  orator,  and 
delivering  a  funeral  oration  over  Csesar !  0  my  !  it 's  enough 
to  make  a  cat  laugh  !  And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  as  the 
interruption  has  ceased,  I  will  proceed  with  my  part :  — 

"My  name  is  Norval ;  on  the  Grampian  Hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flocks  —  " 
And  —  and  —  and  —  {Aside  to  a  hoy  near  him.)  What  is  it  ?  (To 
the  audience )  —  "feeds  his  flocks,"  —  and  —  and  —  and  — 
There  !  I  'm  stuck  a'ready  !  Just  as  I  expected  ;  that  lub- 
ber that  came  to  burv  Caesar  has  bullied  all  the  ideas  out  of 
my  head  !      {Beats  an  inglorious  retreat,  scralchimj  his  head.) 


72  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

LITTLE  EED  RIDING-HOOD; 

OR,  THE  WICKED  WOLF  AND  THE  WIRTUOUS  WOOD-CUTTER. 

Jack,  the  woodcutter,  who  rescues  Red  Riding-Hood  from  the  Wolf,  quite 
by  axey-dent. 

The  Wolf,  a  wicked  wretch,  who  pays  his  devours  to  Little  Red  Riding- 
hood,  but  is  defeated  by  his  rival. 

Dame  Makgert,  mother  of  Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  a  crusty  role,  a7id 
very  ill-bread. 

Little  Eed  Riding-Hood,  a  fascinating  little  pet,  so  lovely  that  you  are 
not  likely  to  see  two  such  faces  under  a  hood. 

The  Fairy  Felicia,  a  beneficent  genius,  versed  in  spells,  and  quite  au  fay 
in  magic. 

Granny,  an  invisible  old  girl,  by  kind  permission  of  the  Prompter. 

Scene  I.  —  TAe  e5:ie?vor  o/Little  Red  Riding-Hood's  Cottage.  Enter 
Red  Riding-Hood's  Mother.  She  runs  about  the  stage,  looking  for  her 
child. 

MOTHER.    Red  Riding-Hood  !  Red  Riding-Hood,  I  say ! 
Where  can  the  little  monkey  hide  away  ] 
Red  Riding-hood  !  0  deary,  deary  me  ! 

Provoking  child,  where  ever  can  she  be  1    (Looks  off  on  both  sides.) 
She  is  a  shocking  disobedient  child, 
Enough  to  drive  a  loving  mother  wild  ; 
But  stay  !  where  are  the  butter  and  the  cake 
That  to  her  grandmother  she  has  to  take  1 

Fetches  basket  from  cottage,  and  shows  cake  and  butter. 

Here  is  the  cake,  and  here  's  the  butter,  see  ! 

The  nicest  cake  and  butter  that  could  be. 

These  in  this  basket  I  will  neatly  lay, 

A  present  to  poor  Granny  to  convey. 

They  are  not  tithes,  though  given  to  the  wicker ; 

Puts  them  in  basket. 
Bless  me,  I  wish  the  child  were  only  quicker ! 
Eed  Riding-Hood,  Red  Riding-Hood  !     Dear,  dear  ! 
Enter  Little  Red  Riding-Hood. 
R.  R.  H.    Here  I  am,  ma. 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING-HOOD.  73 

Mother.  You  wicked  puss,  come  here  ! 

Take  this  to  Granny  !     Poor  old  soul,  she  's  ill ; 
Give  her  my  love,  and  these  tidbits. 

R.  R.  H.  I  will. 

Won't  it  be  nice  1     Through  wood  and  field  I  '11  walk, 
And  have  with  Jack,  perhaps,  a  little  talk. 
Dear  Jack  !     At  thought  of  him  why  quickly  beat,  heart? 
Dear  Jack  !  he  's  no  Jack-pudding,  but  a  sweet-tart ! 
Won't  I  catch  butterflies  and  gather  flowers  ! 

Mother.    Mind  you  don't  dawdle  and  be  gone  for  hours, 
But  go  straight  there,  and  back  again  with  speed, 
And  do  not  loiter  in  lane,  wood,  or  mead, 
Or  else  a  great  big  wolf  shall  come  to  eat  you ; 
At  any  rate,  your  loving  mother  '11  beat  you  ! 

Threatens  R.  R.  H.  with  stick.     Enter  Jack,  at  back. 
Jack.    Where  is  Red  Riding-Hood,  my  heart's  delight? 
La,  there  's  her  mother  !     What  a  horrid  fright ! 

Mother.    What  are  you  doing  here,  you  rascal  Jack  1 
Be  off,  or  I  will  hit  your  head  a  crack.    (Strikes  at  him,  but  misses.) 
Jack.   Before  your  hits,  ma'am,  I  prefer  a  miss  ; 
Bows  to  R.  R.  H. 
So  blow  for  blow,  I  mean  to  blow  a  kiss.   (Kisses  handto'R.'R.  H.) 
Mother.    Kisses  be  bio  — 

Jack.  Hush  !  don't  be  coarse  and  low  : 

If  you  don't  like  my  company,  I  '11  go  ; 
Your  words 'are  violent,  yo\ir  temper  quick, 
So  this  young  woodcutter  will  cut  his  stick. 

He  and  R.  R.  H.  exchange  signs,  blow  kisses,  etc.    Exit  Jack. 
Mother  (to  R.  R.  H.).    That  spark  is  not  your  match,  and 
you  're  to  blame 
To  take  de-light  in  such  a  paltry  flame. 
Now  go  ;  and  lose  no  time  upon  the  road, 
But  hasten  straight  to  Grandmother's  abode. 

R.  R.  H.    I  will  not  loiter,  motlier,  by  the  way, 
Nor  go  in  search  of  butterflies  astray. 
Instead  of  picking  flowers,  my  steps  I  '11  pick, 
4 


74  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

And  take  the  things  to  Granny,  who  is  sick. 
Good  by,  dear  mother. 

Mother  {kisses  her).    There,  my  dear,  good  by. 

R.  R.  H.    See  how  obedient  to  your  word  I  fly  ! 

Mother.    A  one-horse  fly  !     Wliat  nonsense  you  do  talk  ! 
You  have  no  wings,  and  so  of  course  must  walk. 
You  go  afoot.     How  now,  miss  1     Wherefore  smile  1 

R.  R.  H.    Why  go  afoot  1     I  've  got  to  go  a  mile ; 
That  was  the  reason,  mother,  why  I  smiled. 

Mother.    That  joke  's  so  far-fetched,  that  it 's  very  miled. 

[Exeunt. 
Scene  II.  —  A  Forest  Glade.    Enter  Eed  Riding-Hood. 

R.  R.  H.   How  nice  the  wood  is,  with  its  cool  green  shade  ! 
I  must  sit  down  and  rest  here,  I  'm  afraid ; 
Though  mother  would  declare  I  'm  only  lazy, 
I 'm  very  tired  and  weary.  {Yawns,then  sees  flower  and  starts.)  Lawk! 
a  daisy  !     (Picks  flowers.) 

It  can't  be  wrong  some  pretty  flowers  to  puU ; 
With  them  I  '11  fill  my  little  apron  full, 
And  take  to  please  my  poor  old  granny's  eye. 

Butterfly  flies  across  the  stage. 

0,  is  n't  that  a  lovely  butterfly  %    (Ems  after  it.) 
Stop,  little  butterfly,  a  moment,  do. 

Tries  to  catch  it,  and  runs  into  the  arms  of  Jack,  who  enters. 
I  've  caught  it. 

Jack.  Beg  your  pardon,  I  've  cavight  you.  (Kisses  her.) 

R.  R.  H.    Don't  you  be  rude,  sir  !    Fie,  why  treat  me  thus  ! 

Jack.    You  thought  to  take  a  fly,  I  took  a  bus. 
I  love  you,  pretty  maid  !     Suppose  we  say 
That  we  '11  be  married  ?     Just  you  fix  the  day.    (Embraces  her.) 

R.  R.  H.    You  're  very  pressing,  sir  !     Well,  let  me  see ; 
Next  Wednesday  a  wedding's  day  shall  be. 

Jack.    An  earlier  date  far  better,  dear,  will  do ; 
Say,  why  not  Toosday  as  the  day  for  two  1 
Another  kiss  ! 

R.  R.  H.         A  kiss  1     0  dear  me,  no  ! 
Farewell.     To  poor  old  Granny's  I  must  go, 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING-HOOD.  75 

For  mother  has  commanded  me  to  take 

The  poor  old  soul  some  butter  and  a  cake. 

.    Jack.    I  'm  off  to  work,  then. 

R.  R.  H.  Whither  go  you,  pray  1 

Jack.    I  'm  not  quite  sure,  but  mean  to  axe  my  way.    [Exit. 
R.  R.  H.    Now  I  must  hurry  off  to  Granny. 

Fairy  appears. 

Law! 
How  lovely !  such  a  sight  I  never  saw. 

Fairy.    I  am  a  fairy,  and  your  friend,  my  dear ; 
You  '11  need  my  aid,  for  there  is  danger  near. 
Your  disobedience  to  your  mother's  will 
Has  given  bad  fairies  power  to  work  you  ill. 

R.  R.  H.    Thanks,  beauteous  fair}'.     But  no  harm  I  meant, 
And  of  my  disobedience  much  repent. 

Fairy.    I  know  it,  and  will  therefore  prove  your  friend  : 
You  shall  o'ercome  your  troubles  in  the  end. 
Remember  when  your  case  my  help  demands, 
You  've  naught  to  do  save  simply  clap  your  hands.  [Exit  Fairy. 

R.  R.  H.    How  very  sorry  I  am  now  that  I 
Was  disobedient,  let  the  time  slip  by : 
Neglected  Granny  and  my  mother's  words, 
To  gather  flowers  and  list  to  singing  birds, 
To  hunt  the  butterflies.     'T  was  wrong,  I  fear  — 
But,  goodness  gracious  me,  what  have  we  here  1 

Enter  WoLF. 

Wolf.    0,  what  a  very  pretty  little  girl ! 
Such  rosy  cheeks,  such  hair,  so  nice  in  curl ! 
(Aside.)  As  tender  as  a  chicken,  too,  I  '11  lay; 
One  does  n't  get  such  tidbits  every  day. 
(ToR.  R.  H.)  What  brings  you  wandering  in  the  wood  like 

this, 
And  whither  are  you  going,  pretty  miss? 

R.  R.  H.    I  'm  bound  for  Granny's  cottage,  but  I  fear 
I  've  strayed  from  the  riglit  path  in  coming  here. 
I  'm  taking  her  a  currant-cake  and  l)utter; 
So  nice,  their  excellence  no  tongue  can  utter. 


V6  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Wolf  (aside).    However  excellent,  I  '11  bet  I  lick  it ; 
As  to  the  cake,  I  '11  gobble  pretty  quick  it. 
(To  R.  R.  H.)  And  where  does  Granny  live] 

R.  R.  H.  Not  far  from  this ; 

It 's  near  the  river. 

Wolf  (pointing  off).  Then,  my  little  miss, 
Along  that  path  you  have  but  to  repair. 
And  very  shortly  you  will  find  you  're  there. 

R.  R.  H.    0,  thank  you  ;  now  I  '11  go.  [Exit. 

Wolf.  And  I  '11  be  bound 

You  '11  find  that  same  short  cut  a  long  way  round. 
The  nearest  road  I  '11  to  the  cottage  take. 
And  of  old  Granny  I  short  work  will  make, 
And  then  I  '11  gobble  you  up,  little  dear. 
I  did  n't  like  to  try  and  eat  you  here ; 
You  might  object  to  it,  —  some  people  do,  — 
And  scream  and  cry,  and  make  a  hubbuboo ; 
And  there's  a  woodcutter  I  know,  hard  by, 
From  whose  quick  hatchet  quick-catch-it  should  I  ! 
Here  goes  to  bolt  old  Granny  without  flummery, 
A  spring,  —  and  then  one  swallow  shall  be  summery  !      [Exit. 

Scene  III.  —  Interior  of  Grandmother's  cottage.  On  the  right  hand,  close 
to  the  loing,  a  bed  with  a  dummy  in  it  with  a  large  nightcap.  WoLF  is  heard 
knocking. 

Granny  (spoken  from  the  wing  close  hy  the  bed).    Who  's  there  1 

Wolf  (imitating  R.  R.  H. ).  Your  little  grandchild.  Granny  dear. 

Granny.    That  child  has  got  a  shocking  cold,  that 's  clear. 
Some  carelessness,  —  she 's  got  her  feet  wet  through 
With  running  in  the  rain  or  heavy  dew, 
Perhaps  without  her  bonnet ;  and  of  course 
The  little  donkey  is  a  little  hoarse. 
Her  words  she  used  not  croakingly  to  utter.  — 
What  do  you  wanf? 

Wolf.  I  've  brought  your  cake  and  butter, 

But  can't  come  in,  the  door  my  strength  defies. 

Granny.    Pull  at  the  bobbin,  and  the  latch  will  rise. 


LITTLE  RED   EIDIXG-HOOD.  77 

Enter  "Wolf. 

Granny.    How  are  you,  little  darling  ] 

Wolf.  Darling  !  Pooh  ! 

You  did  n't  bolt  jour  door,  so  I  '11  bolt  you  ! 

Graxxt.    0  mercy  !  murder  !  what  is  this  I  see  % 
Some  frightful  spectre  must  the  monster  be  I 

Wolf.    Don't  make  a  noise,  for  you  're  a  hopeless  hobble  in  ; 

I  'm  not  a  ghost,  but  soon  shall  be  a  gobble-in' ! 

Wo'LY  flings  himself  on  the  bed ;  shrieks  and  growls  are  heard.    The  dummy  is 
removed  icithout  the  audience  being  alie  to  see  it,  as  Wolf  is  in  front  of  it. 

Wolf  {coming  down).    Yahen  I  yahen  !  yaheu  !  yaheu!  yachu  ! 

I  've  finished  her  ere  she  could  angry  be  with  me, 

I  did  n't  give  her  time  to  disagree  with  me. 

Now   for  a*  night-gown   {takes  one)   and   a  nightcap   (takes  one). 

Good  !    {puts  them  on.) 

How  do  I  look  as  Grandma  Riding-Hood  1 

Gets  into  bed,  and  covers  himself  up.     A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Wolf  {imitating  Granny's  voice).    Who  's  there  1 
R.  R.  H.    Your  little  grandchild.  Granny  dear ; 
I  have  a  cake  and  butter  for  you  here. 

Wolf.    Pull  at  the  bobbin,  and  the  latch  will  rise. 

Enter  E.  R.  H. 
R.  R.  H.    Good  morning,  Granny  !  here  are  the  supplies. 

Sets  down  basket. 
Wolf.    Good  morning,  dear,  come  sit  beside  my  bed. 
I  'm  very  bad  indeed,  child,  in  my  head. 

R.  R.  H.  sits  on  the  side  of  bed. 

R.  R.  H.    Why,  Granny,  what  big  ears  you  've  got ! 

Wolf.  My  dear, 

That  is  that  Granny  may  the  better  hear. 

R.  R.  H.    And,  Granny,  what  big  eyes  you  've  got ! 

Wolf.  Dear  me ! 

That  is  that  Granny  may  the  better  see. 

R.  R.  H.    Then,  Granny,  what  big  teeth  you  've  got !  0,  la  ! 

Wolf.    To  eat  you  up  with  all  the  better.    {Springs  out  of  bed 

and  strikes  an  attitude.)      Ha! 
R.  R.  H.  screams,  and  runs  away ;  WoLF  pursues  her  round  the  table. 


78  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Enter  Jack. 
Jack.    As  I  was  passing  by,  I  just  dropt  in. 
(To  Wolf.)  Shall  I  drop  into  you  1 

Wolf.  0,  pray  begin  ! 

Jack.    You  hideous  brute,  your  wicked  game  I  '11  stop. 

Hits  Wolf  with  axe. 
How  do  you  like  that,  monster  1 

Wolf.  That 's  first  chop  ! 

Jack.    That  is  n't  all,  —  another  chop  to  follow  ! 

Strikes  him  again.     They  struggle.     W Oh¥  Jails  with  a  loud  cry. 

Don't  holloa,  sir ! 

Wolf.  I  must,  —  I  'm  beaten  hollow ; 

You  've  felled  me  to  the  earth. 

Jack.  Yes,  I  'm  the  feller  ! 

I  '11  beat  you  black  and  blue. 

Wolf  (aside).  Then  I  '11  turn  yeller  ! 

Goes  into  convulsions,  shrieks,  and  feigns  to  be  dead.     Jack  flings  down  axe, 

and  embraces  R.  R.  H. 

E.  R.  H.    You  've  saved  my  life,  dear  Jack  !  What  can  I  do 
To  show  my  love  and  gratitude  to  you  1 

Jack.    Sweetest  Red  Riding-Hood,  say  you  '11  be  mine, 
To  jine  our  hands  the  parson  I  '11  enjine. 

Wolf  creeps  behind  them,  and  secures  the  axe. 

Wolf  (leaping  up).   That  en-gine  won't  assist  you,  tender  pair; 
Snatches  up  R.  R.  H.  with  one  arm,  brandishing  are. 
If  that's  your  line,  why  I  shall  raise  the  fare. 

Jack.    He  's  got  the  axe  —  0,  here  's  a  nice  quandary  I 

R.  R.  H.  (claps  hands).    You '11  raise  the  fare?     Then  I  will 
raise  the  fairy  ! 
Fairy  appears  at  the  back.    Enter  R.  R.  H.'s  Mother. 

Mother.    You  wicked  child,  where  have  you  been  1     Oho  ! 
You  're  listening  to  the  shoot  of  that  young  beau  ! 
But  I  forbid  it,  and  I  '11  have  my  way.    (Fairy  comes  forward.) 

Fairy.    Excuse  me,  but  your  orders  I  gainsay. 

Mother.    Who  are  you,  madam,  I  should  like  to  ask  *? 

Fairy.    I  am  the  Fairy  of  the  Wood,  whose  task 
It  is  to  aid  the  weak  against  the  strong. 
And  set  things  right  when  they  are  going  wrong. 


A   THOUSAND   A   YEAR.  79 

You,  Master  Wolf,  please  keep  that  hatchet  ready  ; 
For  that  sad  jest  of  eating  the  old  lady, 
You  shall  die,  jester,  by  that  very  tool ! 
Dame  Margery,  you  have  acted  like  a  fool. 

Mother.    Good  Mistress  Fairy,  why,  what  have  I  done  1 

Fairy.    Jack  is  no  peasant,  but  a  prince's  sou, 
Stolen  from  the  crib  by  an  old  cribbing  gypsy, 
When  he  was  little,  and  his  nurse  was  tipsy. 

Mother.    You  don't  say  ! 

Jack.  I  a  prince  ! 

R.  E.  H.  Good  gi-acious,  mother  ! 

Is  he  that  'ere  ] 

Fairy.  He  's  that  heir,  and  no  other. 

Your  mother  won't  reject  his  house  and  lands. 
Though  she  did  him ;  so  here  I  join  your  hands, 
With  blessings,  from  the  Fairy  of  the  Wood, 
On  brave  Prince  Jack  and  fair  Red  Riding-Hood. 

Note.  —  The  dresses  are  easily  enough  contrived,  with  the  exception 
of  the  Wolf.  A  rough  shawl  or  a  fur  jacket  will  answer  the  purpose, 
and  the  head  can  be  made  with  an  animal  mask,  for  sale  at  costumers' 
and  other  places  in  most  cities. 

The'Butterfly  in  Scene  II.  is  aflSjced  to  wire  held  at  the  wings.  The 
Prompter  reads  the  part  of  Granny,  standing  close  to  the  bed,  in  order 
to  assist  in  getting  rid  of  the  Dummy  when  "Wolf  is  supposed  to  eat  it. 


o 


A   THOUSAND   A   YEAR. 

Robin  Ruff  ;  Gaffer  Green. 

Robin  Ruff. 
IF  I  had  a  thousand  a  year.  Gaffer  Green,  • 


,    But  I  never  shall  have  it,  I  fear,  — 
What  a  man  should  I  be,  and  wliat  sights  should  I  see, 
If  I  had  but  a  thousand  a  year  ! 

Gafff.r  Green. 
The  best  wish  you  can  make,  take  my  word,  Robin  Ruff, 
Will  not  pay  for  your  bread,  that's  quite  clear; 


80  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

But  be  honest  and  true,  and  say  what  you  would  do, 
If  you  had  but  a  thousand  a  year. 

Robin. 
I  would  treat  all  my  jolly  good  friends,  Gaffer  Green, 

They  should  taste  of  the  best  of  my  cheer ; 
The  bells  should  all  ring,  and  I  'd  live  like  a  king ; 

0,  if  I  had  a  thousand  a  year ! 

Gaffer. 
And  what,  when  you  'd  lived  like  a  king,  Robin  Ruff, 

And  had  feasted  your  friends  with  your  cheer, 
When  the  bells  had  all  ruug  their  merry  ding-dong. 

Would  you  do  with  your  thousand  a  year  ] 

Robin. 
f  would  buy  me  a  horse  and  fine  clothes,  GaflPer  Green, 

And  see  all  the  fine  sights  far  and  near ; 
(  would  cut  sucli  a  show,  as  should  make  the  folks  know. 

That  I  lived  on  a  thousand  a  year  ! 

Gaffer. 
And  when  you  had  seen  all  you  could,  Robin  Ruff, 

Bought  your  horse  and  your  clothing  so  dear. 
What,  when  it  was  known  what  a  man  you  were  grown, 

Would  you  do  with  your  thousand  a  year  % 

Robin. 
I  would  then  do  —  I  cannot  tell  what,  Gaffer  Green ; 

I  would  go  to  —  I  hardly  know  where  ; 
I  would  scatter  the  chink,  and  leave  others  to  think, 

While  I  lived  on  a  thousand  a  year. 

Gaffer. 
I  'm  afraid  with  such  doings  as  those,  Robin  Ruff, 

That  your  debts  would  be  soon  in  arrear ; 
And  unable  to  pay  the  expense  of  the  day, 

You  'd  be  poor  with  a  thousand  a  year. 


A  THOUSAND  A  YEAR.  81 


Robin. 


At  the  misers  who  save  what  they  get,  Gaffer  Green, 

I  would  turn  uj)  my  nose  with  a  sneer ; 
For  a  man  much  may  spend,  and  not  get  to  the  end. 

If  his  fortune  's  a  thousand  a  year. 

Gaffee. 

And  when  you  are  aged  and  gray,  Robin  Ruff, 
When  the  day  of  your  death  shall  draw  near. 

What,  amidst  all  your  pains,  will  you  do  with  your  gains, 
If  you  then  have  a  thousand  a  year? 

Robin. 
I  never  can  tell  what  you  're  at,  Gaffer  Green, 

For  your  questions  are  always  so  queer ; 
But,  as  other  folks  die,  I  suppose  so  must  I. 

Gaffer. 
What !  and  give  up  your  thousand  a  year  ? 

There  's  a  world  that  is  better  than  this,  Robin  Ruff, 

And  I  hope  in  my  heart  you  '11  go  there, 
Where  a  poor  man 's  as  great  with  no  earthly  estate, 

Ay,  as  if  he  'd  a  thousand  a  year, 

Robin. 

Well,  I  think  you  are  right  in  the  main,  Gaffer  Green, 

To  that  world  to  endeavor  to  steer ; 
And  I  '11  try,  for  your  sake,  my  hard  earnings  to  make 

Stand  instead  of  a  thousand  a  year. 

Gaffer. 

Mind  your  work,  put  your  trust  in  your  God,  Robin  Ruff; 

If  you  live  in  his  favor  and  fear, 
His  protection,  you  '11  find,  will  give  more  peace  of  mind 

Than  you  'd  get  for  a  thousand  a  year. 

4*  L 


82  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

WHERE  THERE  'S  A  WILL  THERE  'S  A  WAY. 

Matthew  ;  Stephen  ;  Frank. 

MATTHEW.  Good  day,  Neighbor  Stephen.  I  want  to  go 
a  short  journey  to-day,  and  am  come  to  ask  if  you  can 
lend  me  your  horse. 

Stephen.  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,  Neigh- 
bor Matthew,  if  I  were  not  obliged  to  carry  three  sacks  of 
corn  to  the  mill  for  my  wife,  who  is  out  of  flour. 

M.  The  mill  is  not  going  to-day.  I  heard  the  miller  tell 
Thomas  just  now  that  the  water  was  too  low. 

S.  Indeed  !  that  is  very  awkward.  I  must  ride  as  fast  as  I 
can  to  town,  then,  for  flour.  My  wife  would  be  in  a  fine  tem- 
per if  I  did  n't. 

M.  T  can  save  you  that  trouble.  I  have  a  sack  of  good 
flour  at  home,  and  will  lend  you  as  much  as  you  want. 

S.  Ah,  your  flour  would  not  suit  my  wife ;  she  is  so  par- 
ticular. 

M.  If  she  were  so  a  hundredfold,  this  might  please  her, 
seeing  I  bought  the  grain  of  you,  and  you  declared  it  was  the 
best  joxi  had  ever  sold. 

S.  0,  if  it  came  from  my  granary,  it  was  sure  to  be  good, 
I  never  have  any  bad.  Neighbor,  you  know  that  no  one  is 
better  pleased  than  I  am  to  do  a  kindness ;  but  my  horse  re- 
fused his  hay  this  morning.     I  am  afraid  he  is  not  fit  to  go. 

M.    Never  fear.     I  will  give  him  plenty  of  oats  on  the  way. 

S.  We  are  going  to  have  a  fog ;  the  roads  will  be  very  slip- 
pery.    You  might  break  your  neck. 

M.  There  is  no  danger  ;  your  horse  is  very  safe.  Did  you 
not  talk  just  now  of  riding  him  as  fast  as  you  could? 

S.  How  unlucky  that  my  saddle  is  all  to  pieces,  and  the 
bridle  gone  to  be  mended  ! 

M.    Fortunately,  I  have  a  saddle  and  bridle  at  my  house. 

S.    Your  saddle  would  never  fit  my  horse. 

M.    Well,  I  will  borrow  John  Thompson's. 


WHERE   THERE  'S   A   WILL   THERE  'S  A   WAY.  83 

S.    Nonsense  !  it  will  not  fit  any  better  than  yours. 

M.  I  will  go  up  to  the  squire's.  The  gi'ooni  is  a  friend  of 
mine.  He  will  be  able  to  find  one  to  fit  among  the  twenty  iu 
his  saddle-room. 

S.  To  be  sure  he  would,  neighbor ;  and  no  one  could  have 
more  pleasure  than  I  have  in  obliging  a  friend.  You  should 
have  the  horse  with  all  my  heart,  but  he  has  n't  been  curried 
this  fortnight.  His  mane  is  n't  dressed  either.  Were  he  seen 
in  such  a  state,  I  should  never  be  able  to  sell  him  for  half  his 
worth,  if  I  wished  to  part  with  him. 

M.  A  horse  is  soon  curried ;  my  man  will  do  it  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hoLU'. 

S.  To  be  sm-e  he  would.  But  now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
he  wants  shoeing. 

M.    Well,  the  blacksmith  is  but  two  doors  off. 

S.  I  dare  say,  —  a  village  blticksmith  for  my  horse  !  I 
would  n't  trust  him  with  my  donkey.  The  king's  blacksmith 
is  the  only  man  capable  of  shoeing  him  well. 

M.  That  is  lucky,  for  my  way  leads  past  his  door.  I  can 
get  him  shod  as  I  pass. 

S.  {seeing  his  servant  in  the  distance,  calls  him).    Frank  !   Frank  ! 

Frank  (approaching).   What  is  it,  master? 

S.  Why,  here  is  Neighbor  Matthew  wants  to  boiTow  my 
horse.  You  know  he  has  a  sore  on  his  back  as  large  as  my 
hand.  (He  winks  at  him.)  Go,  see  if  it  has  healed  over.  (Frank 
makes  a  sign  that  he  understands,  and  goes  out.)  I  think  it  ought  to 
be  by  this  time.  So  it  is  agreed,  neighbor,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  obliging  you.  We  must  lend  each  other  a  help- 
ing hand  in  this  life.  If  I  had  refused  you  point-blank,  you 
would  naturally  have  done  the  same  by  me  another  time. 
But  I  have  so  much  good-nature  in  me,  I  am  always  ready  to 
help  a  friend  in  need.  (Fuank  returns.)  Well,  Frank,  how  is 
the  wound  1 

F.  How  is  it,  master?  You  talked  about  the  size  of  your 
hand, — the  breadth  of  my  back  you  should  have  said.  The 
poor  beast  is  not  fit  to  go  a  step.  And,  besides,  I  had  prom- 
ised it  to  Farmer  Blairo  to  take  his  wife  to  market. 


84  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

S.  Ah,  neighbor,  how  sorry  I  am  things  should  turn  out 
thus !  I  would  have  given  the  world  to  be  able  to  lend  you 
the  horse.  I  am  quite  in  despair  on  your  account,  my  dear 
Matthew. 

M.  I  am  grieved  for  you,  my  dear  Stephen.  For  you  must 
know  I  have  just  had  a  note  from  his  Lordship's  steward,  who 
wants  to  see  me  immediately.  It  would  have  been  a  stroke  of 
business  for  both  of  us.  He  told  me  if  I  were  there  by  noon 
he  would  give  me  the  felling  of  a  part  of  the  forest.  It  would 
have  been  worth  a  good  deal  to  me,  and  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
pounds  to  jon,  —  for  I  thought  of  employing  you,  —  but  — 

S.    What !  fifteen  or  twenty  pounds,  did  you  say  1 

M.  Perhaps  more ;  however,  as  your  horse  is  not  in  a  fit 
state  to  go,  I  will  see  if  the  other  carpenter  can  lend  me  one. 

S.  You  will  affront  me  if  you  do,  for  mine  is  quite  at  your 
service  ;  do  you  think  I  will  refuse  it  to  my  best  friend  1 

M.    But  what  will  you  do  for  flour  ? 

S.    0,  my  wife  can  manage  without  for  a  fortnight  to  come. 

M.    And  your  saddle  all  to  pieces. 

S.  It  was  the  old  one  I  spoke  of  I  have  another  and  a 
bridle,  both  quite  new.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  give  you  the 
first  use  of  them. 

M.    Shall  I  have  the  horse  shod  in  the  town,  then  1 

S.  Why,  really,  I  quite  forgot  I  had  him  shod  the  other 
day  by  our  blacksmith  here,  just  by  way  of  trial.  To  do  him 
justice,  he  succeeded  very  well. 

M.  But  if  the  poor  beast  has  a  wound  on  his  back  as  large 
as  Frank  says, 

S.  0,  I  know  the  rogue  :  he  always  exaggerates.  I  '11  bet 
anything  it  is  no  larger  than  my  little  finger. 

M.  At  any  rate  he  must  be  curried  a  little ;  for  the  last 
fortnight,  you  said  — 

S.  Curried  !  I  should  like  to  see  Frank  neglect  that  for  a 
single  day. 

M.  Give  him  a  feed  first,  then.  Did  you  not  tell  me  he 
had  refused  to  eat  hayl 

S.    That  must  have  been  because  he  had  plenty  of  oats. 


KEEPING  IN   REPAIR.  "  85 

Don't  fear,  he  '11  carry  you  as  swiftly  as  a  bird  flies.  The  road 
is  dry,  —  no  signs  of  a  fog.  A  pleasant  journey  to  you,  — 
and  luck  with  the  steward.  Come,  come,  jump  up,  —  don't 
lose  a  moment.     I  'U  hold  your  stirrup.  ^ 


KEEPING  IN  REPAIR. 

Joe  Flicker,  a  cobbler ;  Jack  Thatch,  a  man  out  of  repair. 

Scene  I. — Joe  Fucker's  shop.     Joe  seated  at  his  bench  at  work  with 

hammer  and  lapstone. 

JOE  {taking  up  a  ragged  shoe  and  contemplating  it).  The  tendency 
of  everything  is  to  go  to  ruin.  As  soon  as  ever  you  make 
a  shoe,  it  begins  to  wear  oi;t ;  as  soon  as  you  wind  up  a  clock,  it 
begins  to  run  down  ;  you  no  sooner  build  a  house,  but  it  begins 
to  want  something  to  keep  it  up  ;  and  if  things  go  beyond  a 
certain  point,  it  is  impossible  to  bring  them  back.  (Resumes 
work  for  a  few  moments.)  But  now,  though  we  can't  remedy  this 
state  of  things  altogether,  still  it  is  our  duty,  and  it  certainly 
will  be  both  to  our  comfort  and  advantage,  to  improve  it  as 
much  as  lies  in  our  power.  The  great  point,  then,  is  to  keep 
a  sharp  lookout,  and  keep  everything  in  repair ;  and  upon 
this  principle  in  life  I  am  determined  to  go.  And  I  'm  sure  I 
shall  be  happier  and  richer  for  it  too.    (Resumes  work.) 

Enter  Jack  Thatch,  with  uncombed  hair  and  dilapidated  clothes,  holding  in 
his  hands  the  skeleton  of  a  jiair  of  boots. 

Jack.  Here,  Joe,  can  you  make  anything  of  these  here 
boots  ]     If  any  man  in  town  can,  you  are  the  man. 

Joe.    Let 's  see  them.     Tliey  're  very  far  gone. 

Jack.  I  let  them  go  too  far.  They  were  prime  boots  :  't  is 
a  pity  I  did  n't  keep  them  in  repair. 

Joe.  'T  is  a  pity  you  don't  keep  yourself  in  repair  (looking  at 
him  with  a  sharp  glance).  'T  is  a  pity,  John  Thatcli,  that  you 
don't  keep  yoarsdf  in  repair. 


86  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES.. 

Jack  (looking  hard  at  the  cobbler  for  a  few  moments,  holding  the  boots  at 
full  length  from  him,  and  then  in  a  puzzled,  boozy  kind  of  a  way).  Joe 
Flicker,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Joe.  Throw  down  those  boots.  It 's  no  use  your  trying  to 
make  them  stand  up  hke  respectable  boots  :  throw  them 
down  there,  poor,  ill-used  creatures  !  and  I  '11  tell  you  what  I 
mean.  'T  is  my  belief  that  every  man  has  only  a  lease  of 
himself,  —  and  that  a  repairing  one  ;  and  't  is  as  plain  as  that 
I  have  this  shoe  in  my  hand,  that  you  are  n't  keeping  your- 
self in  repair. 

Jack.  Go  on.  It  does  a  man  good  to  hear  you  talk. 
He !  he  !  I  don't  think  I  've  been  in  repair  for  a  precious 
long  time. 

Joe.  I  will  go  on.  Whenever  I  make  a  beginning  I  always 
like  to  go  on  ixntil  I  come  to  the  end.  Now  look  at  your  hat : 
a  hat  is  a  man's  roof,  and  yours  would  n't  fetch  sixpence.  I 
wonder  you  're  not  dead  long  before  this  with  cold  in  your 
head.  And  look  at  your  coat !  't  is  hanging  in  ribbons  on 
your  back.  And  then  your  boots  :  boots  might  be  said  to  be 
a  man's  foundation  ;  anyhow,  they  're  the  lowest  story  ;  and 
from  your  attic  to  your  basement  you  're  out  of  repair. 

Jack.    Go  on,  Joe. 

Joe.  Yes,  I  will  go  on,  John  ;  and  how  do  you  come  to  be 
out  of  repair]  Why,  by  that  horrid  dram-shop  that  you  're 
always  at ;  and  you  '11  never  be  in  decent  repair  as  long  as 
you  go  there. 

Jack.  Well,  you  're  tidy  anyhow  (looking  at  the  cobbler's  shining 
face  and  decent  clothes,  and  rolling  his  eyes  round  the  comfortable  little  room). 

Joe.  So  I  am.  I  'm  in  what  I  call  tenantable  repair.  I  'm 
not  what  the  agent  calls  in  decorative  repair,  —  that  means 
painting  and  gilding,  and  such-like  finery,  —  but  all  good  and 
solid  ;  at  least  as  good  and  solid  as  I  can  make  it,  —  weather- 
proof, you  know,  not  hurt  by  wind  or  rain. 

Jack.    That  '11  do  now.     When  will  the  boots  be  done  1 
Joe.    'T  will  set  me  hard  to  do  them  at  all :  still,  though  I 
say  it,  if  anybody  can  do  them,  I  'm  the  man  ;  but  you  can't 
have  them  for  a  month.     I  'm  not  one  of  those  men  who  say 


KEEPING   IN   REPAIR.  87 

a  fortnight  -when  they  mean  a  month.  When  I  say  a  day  I 
mean  to  keep  to  it ;  and  I  've  promised  so  many  folks  before 
you,  that  it  will  be  a  month  before  these  boots  are  done. 

Jack.  Well,  go  on,  and  I  '11  call  for  them  then.  {Aside.)  So 
I  'm  out  of  repair,  am  I !  Humph  !  that 's  a  new  light  to  look 
at  one's  self  in.  From  the  roof  down  to  the  cellar,  eh  1  That 
is  n't  creditable,  is  it  1  especially  for  a  young  man  who  comes 
of  people  who  always  kept  themselves  up  in  the  world.  Well, 
the  sooner  I  'm  put  in  repair  the  better,  that  's  all.  I  '11  look 
to  it,  and  tvj  whether  I  can't  do  myself  up  a  bit.  Good 
morning,  Joe  ! 

Joe.    Good  morning. 

Scene  II.  —  TTte  same,  a  month  later.  A  pair  of  hoofs  neatly  repaired  and 
polished  are  hung  up  covered  with  a  cloth.  Joe  Flicker  at  u-ork. 
Jack  etiters  decently  dressed,  and  hair  neatly  combed. 

Jack.    Well,  Joe,  are  the  boots  done  1 

Joe  looks  up,  then  lays  down  his  awl  and  the  shoe  he  is  mending,  and  finally 

rises  from  his  bench  and  deliberately  walks  round  Jack,  surveying  him 
from  head  to  foot.     Then  he  retires  backward  to  his  stool  and  drops  down 

upon  it,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Jack.      At  length   he  breaks 

silence. 

Joe.    Jack  Thatch,  you  've  been  and  got  yourself  repaired. 

Jack.  Yes,  I've  been  repairing  myself;  and  I  'm  all  the 
better  for  being  a  little  done  up. 

Joe.  You  are  (laying  a  long,  strong  emphasis  on  the  word  "are"), 
you  are.     Now  sit  down  here,  and  tell  us  all  about  it. 

Jack  {seating  himself  on  the  only  chair  in  the  room).  Well,  you  sce,  I 
could  n't  get  rid  of  the  idea  of  being  out  of  repair,  after  what 
you  said  to  me  a  month  ago,  —  the  time  I  left  those  boots  to 
be  fixed  up.  The  more  I  thought  about  it,  the  more  horrid 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  be  helping  to  keep  dram-shojis 
in  repair,  while  I  was  going  to  ruin  worse  and  worse  every 
day ;  and  — 

Joe  {jumps  up  hastily,  rushes  to  the  wall  and  unveils  the  sparkling  boots). 
Jack  Thatch,  you  '11  yet  be  worthy  of  those  boots  ;  ay,  and 
of  much  more  too  !  There  they  are ;  and  not  a  penny  will 
I  take  for  them  !     There,  just  put  them  on. 


88  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Jack  throws  away  the  old  slippers  he  has  on,  and  puts  on  the  boots.  Job 
assists  him  in  this  ;  requires  him  to  stand  with  his  feet  in  different  altitudes 
to  see  how  the  boots  look ;  shakes  him  by  the  hand ;  and  then,  slapping  him  on  the 
back,  says :  — 

I  wish  you  God  speed  in  your  new  boots  and  your  new  life ! 
You  're  in  good  repair  now. 

Jack.  Ah,  Joe  !  't  is  much  better  to  do  as  you  have  done 
—  not  to  allow  one's  self  to  get  out  of  repair  —  than  to  make 
such  a  mistake,  and  repair  it  ever  so  well  at  last.  How  did 
you  keep  right  without  half  the  chances  I  have  had  1 

Joe.  Don't  say  "keep  right"  (with  a  serious  look).  Who  keeps 
right  1 

Jack.    Well,  Joe,  how  did  you  come  to  think  of  all  this  1 

Joe.  I  used  my  eyes,  and  saw  it.  Did  n't  the  very  business 
of  my  life  — always  repairing  —  tell  me  something  about  it] 
And  I  used  this  {pulling  out  a  small  book  from  a  little  box  in  his  bench). 
You  know  this  book  well,  —  many  people  are  ashamed  of  it, 
but  I  'm  not,  —  't  is  a  Bible ;  and  this  taught  me  how  all 
the  decay  comes,  and  it  showed  me  where  to  go  to  to  get  it 
repaired.  I  say,  first  and  chief,  this  has  been  my  counsellor 
and  friend.  There  would  be  less  want  of  repairs,  if  people 
attended  to  what  it  says  ;  and  when  repairs  are  wanted,  they  'd 
be  better  done,  if  they  minded  it  then. 

Jack.  Well,  but  don't  you  do  anything  to  keep  yourself  all 
right  1  You  're  always  smiling  when  other  people  are  frown- 
ing and  growling ;  and  you  always  have  decent  clothes  when 
many  a  man  with  as  good  earnings  is  ragged.  I  'd  like  to  know 
what  you  do. 

Joe.  Well,  cousin,  I  do  all  I  can  to  keep  myself  in  repair. 
Here  's  this  little  body,  —  't  is  n't  half  the  size  of  yours,  and  it 
has  had  a  wonderful  deal  better  treatment ;  but  if  I  were 
careless  about  it,  I  'd  soon  be  laid  up,  and  unfitted  to  work. 
What 's  food  ]  Is  n't  it  repairs  for  the  waste  of  the  body  1 
And  what 's  sleep  1  Is  n't  it  the  same  1  So  I  take  care,  out 
of  what  I  earn,  to  have  good,  wholesome  food,  and  stout,  warm 
clothes  ;  and  I  go  to  bed  at  decent  hours,  and  get  enough  of 
sleep,  —  that 's  what  I  do.    And  when  this  little  room  gets  foul 


KEEPING   IN   EEPAIR.  89 

and  close,  then  I  throw  open  the  window,  and  that  repairs  it ; 
and  so  I  go  on,  always  repairing,  and  always  keeping  in  re- 
pair. And  mind  you,  Jack  Thatch,  the  great  thing  is  to  repair 
at  once.  "  A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine."  And  I  sometimes 
do  some  extra  repairs.  When  I  get  seedy,  I  treat  myself  to  a 
half  holiday,  and  go  in  the  train  over  to  the  hills,  and  come 
home  a  new  kind  of  man ;  and  this  is  the  way,  in  part,  tliat 
I  'm  always  smiling  and  always  happy. 

Jack.  Well,  Joe,  but  many  folks  live  well,  and  they  're  not 
happy. 

Joe.  Ay :  perhaps  they  live  to  eat,  and  don't  eat  to  live. 
But  I  do  something  more  to  myself  than  this ;  I  'm  always 
keeping  my  temper  in  repair.  You  would  n't  believe  it,  but 
I  'm  sometimes  inclined  to  be  as  sharp  as  this  awl ;  then  I 
turn  to  this  friend  (laying  his  hand  on  the  Book),  and  I  go  down  upon 
my  knees,  and  I  get  the  better  of  myself.  Believe  me,  Jack, 
a  man's  knees  are  wonderful  tools,  if  he  'd  only  use  them  as 
he  ought.  And  sometimes  I  sit  and  think,  — ay,  Jack,  you  're 
not  much  given  to  thinking,  but  thought  is  a  wonderful  tool 
if  you  have  the  patience  to  use  it,  —  and  I  say  to  myself,  "  Joe 
Flicker,  how  much  better  off  are  you  than  others  !  "  "  Joe 
Flicker,  how  much  better  off  are  you  than  you  deserve  to  be  ! " 
"  Joe  Flicker,  after  all,  does  this  trouble  matter  so  very  much  1 
won't  it  soon  be  over"?"  "Joe  Flicker,  how  will  you  make 
the  best  of  it  1  perhaps  it  need  n't  be  as  bad  as  it  looks." 
Then  I  always  wind  up  with  this  one  saying,  "Joe  Flicker, 
't  is  only  for  a  while  !  " 

Jack.  Well,  you  're  a  happy  man.  [Rpflects  a  few  moments, 
looking  down  at  his  boots.)  Yes!  I'll  be  a  respectable  man.  I'll 
keep  myself  in  repair.  I  '11  have  a  book  like  yours.  And 
I  have  knees,  and  I  '11  use  them.  I  have  a  head,  with 
brains  inside,  and  I  '11  use  that,  too.  Somehow,  you  have 
convinced  me  that,  by  reading,  and  thinking,  and  praying,  and 
manfully  setting  to  work,  I  can  do  a  great  deal.  Yes,  my 
friends  and  neighbors  shall  know  me  hereafter  as  a  man  who 
keeps  himself  in  repair. 


90  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

THE  CLOWNS'  FIRST  REHEARSAL. 
Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

QUINCE.    Is  all  our  company  here  1 
Bottom.    Yoa  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man 
by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

QuiN.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name,  which  is 
thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our  interlude 
before  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  on  his  wedding-day  at  night. 

BoT.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play  treats 
on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and  so  grow  on  to  a 
point. 

QuiN.  Marry,  owe  play  is,  —  The  most  lamentable  comedy, 
and  most  cruel  death,  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby. 

BoT.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and  a  merry. 
Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your  actors  by  the  scroll. 
Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

QuiN.    Answer,  as  I  call  you.  —  Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver. 

BoT.    Ready ;  name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 

QuiN.   You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

BoT.    What  is  Pyramus  %  a  lover  or  a  tyrant  1 

QuiN.    A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly  for  love. 

BoT.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of  it : 
if  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes.  I  will  move 
storms  ;  I  will  condole  in  some  measure.  To  the  rest :  —  Yet 
my  chief  humor  is  for  a  tyrant !  I  could  play  Ercles  rarely, 
or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 

"  The  raging  rocks. 
With  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison  gates ; 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 

The  foolish  fates." 

This  was  lofty  !  —  Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players.  —  This 
is  Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein ;  a  lover  is  more  condoling. 


THE    CLOWNS'    FIRST   EEHEARSAL.  91 

QuI^^    Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

QuiN.    You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.    "What  is  Thisby  1  a  wandering  knight  1 

QuiN.    It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman  ;  I  have  a  beard 
coming. 

Qum.  That 's  all  one  ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask,  and  you 
may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Box.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby  too  !  I  '11 
speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice,  —  "  Thisne,  Thisue  !  —  Ah, 
Pyramus,  my  lover  dear ;  thy  Thisby  dear  !  and  lady  dear  !  " 

QuiN.  No,  no ;  you  must  play  Pyramus  ;  and,  Flute,  you, 
Thisby. 

BoT.    Well,  proceed. 

QuiN.    Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Stab.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

QuiN.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby's  mother. 
—  Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

QuiN.  You,  Pyram.us's  father ;  myself,  Thisby's  father ; 
Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part ;  —  and,  I  hope,  there  is 
a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  1  Pray  you,  if  it  be, 
give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

QuiN.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing  but 
roaring. 

Box.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too  :  I  will  roar,  that  I  will  do 
any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me  ;  I  will  roar  that  I  will  make 
the  Duke  say,  "  Let  him  roar  again,  let  him  roar  again." 

QuiN.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would  fright 
the  Duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek ;  and  that 
were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.    That  would  hang  us,  every  mother's  son. 

BoT.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should  fright  the 
ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more  discretion 
but  to  hang  us ;  but  I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  that  I  will 


92  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

roar  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an 
't  were  any  nightingale. 

QuiN.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus ;  for  Pyramus  is 
a  sweet-faced  man,  —  a  proper  man,  as  one  shall  see  in  a  sum- 
mer's day,  —  a  most  lovely,  gentleman-like  man ;  therefore 
you  must  needs  play  Pyramus.  Now,  masters,  here  are  your 
parts  :  and  I  am  to  entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you, 
to  con  them  by  to-morrow  night ;  and  meet  me  in  the  palace 
wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moonlight ;  there  we  will 
rehearse ;  for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be  dogged  with 
company,  and  our  devices  known.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will 
draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants.  I  pray 
you,  fail  me  not. 

BoT.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse  more  ob- 
iscurely  and  courageously.     Take  pains ;  be  perfect ;  adieu. 

QuiN.    At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

BoT.   Enough.     Hold,  or  cut  bowstrings. 


THE  CLOWNS'  SECOND  REHEARSAL. 
Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

BOTTOM.    Are  we  all  met  1 
QuiN.    Pat,  pat ;  and  here  's  a  marvellous  convenient 
place  for  our  rehearsal.     This  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage, 
this  hawthorn-brake  our  tirino'-house  ;    and  we  will  do  it  in 
action  as  we  will  do  it  before  the  Duke. 

BoT.    Peter  Quince,  — 

QuiN.    What  sayest  thou,  bully  Bottom  1 

BoT.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisby  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramiis  must  draw  a 
sword  to  kill  himself;  which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How 
answer  you  that  1 

Snout.    By  'r  lakin,  a  parlous  fear. 

Star.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out,  when  all  is 
done. 


THE   CLOWNS'   SECOND   REHEARSAL.  93 

Box.  Not  a  whit !  I  have  a  device  to  make  all  well. 
"Write  me  a  prologue  ;  and  let  the  prologue  seem  to  saj,  we 
will  do  uo  harm  with  oxvr  swords,  and  that  Pyramus  is  not 
killed  indeed ;  and,  for  the  more  better  assurance,  tell  them 
that  I,  Pyramus,  am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver ! 
This  will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

QuiN.    Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue. 

Snout.    "Will  not  the  ladies  be  afear'd  of  the  lion  1 

Star.    I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

BoT.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves ;  to 
bring  in  —  God  shield  us  !  —  a  lion  among  ladies  is  a  most 
dreadful  thing ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-fowl  than 
your  lion  living,  and  we  ought  to  look  to  't. 

Snout.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell  he  is  not  a 
lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his  face 
must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ;  and  he  himself  must 
speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the  same  defect,  —  "  La- 
dies,"—  or,  "Fair  ladies,"  —  "  I  would  wish  you,"  —  or,  "I 
would  request  you,"  or,  "  I  would  entreat  you,"  —  "  not  to  fear, 
not  to  tremble  ;  my  life  for  yours.  If  you  think  I  come  hither 
as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of  ni}^  life  ;  no,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  1 
am  a  man  as  other  men  are  "  ;  and  there,  indeed,  let  him  name 
his  name,  and  tell  them  he  is  Snug,  the  joiner. 

QuiN.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard  things ; 
that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  chamber;  for,  you 
know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by  moonlight. 

Snout.    Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play  our  play  1 

Bot.  a  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the  almanac.  Find 
out  moonshine,  find  out  moonshine. 

QuiN.    Yes  :  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the  great 
chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open,  and  the  moon  may 
shine  in  at  the  casement. 

QuiN.  Ay  ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of  thorns 
and  a  lanthorn,  and  say  he  comes  to  disfigure,  or  to  present, 
the  person  of  Moonshine.     Then,  there  is  another  thing :  we 


94  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

must  have  a  wall  in  the  great  chamber ;  for  Pjramus  and 
Thisbj,  says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a 
wall. 

Snout.  You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall.  What  say  you, 
Bottom  1 

BoT.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  "Wall ;  and  let  him 
have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some  rough-cast  about 
him,  to  signify  wall ;  and  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and 
through  that  cranny  shall  Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

QuiN.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit  down, 
every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts.  Pyramus,  you 
begin.  When  you  have  spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that 
brake ;  and  so  every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  Puck,  behind. 
Puck.    What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swaggering  here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  1 
What,  a  play  toward  1     I  '11  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 
QuiN.    Speak,  Pyramus.     Thisby,  stand  forth. 
BoT.    "Thisby,  the  flowers  of  odious  savors  sweet,"  — 
QuiN.    "  Odors,  odors  !  " 
BoT.  —  "  odors  savors  sweet ; 

So  doth  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear.  — 
But  hark,  a  voice  !  stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 
And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear."  [Exit. 

Puck  {aside).   A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  played  here. 

[Exit. 
Flu.    Must  I  speak  now  1 

QuiN.    Ay,  marry,  must  you ;  for  you  must  understand  he 
goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 
Flu.    "  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 
Of  color  like  the  red  rose  on  triiunphant  brier. 
Most  brisky  juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 
As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  wo\ild  never  tire, 
I  '11  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb." 
QuiN.    "  Ninus'  tomb,"  man !     Why,  you  must  not  speak 
that  yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus.    You  speak  all  your 


MR.  BUMBLE   AND   MRS.  CORNEY.  95 

part  at  once,  cues  and  all.  —  Pyramus,  enter  !  your  cue  is  past  3 

it  is,  "  never  tire." 

Flu.    Oh  !  —  "  As  true  as  truest  horse  that  yet  would  never 

tire." 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom  with  an  ass's  head. 

Flu.    Oh  !  —  "As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never 

tire." 

BoT.    "  If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine." 

QuiN.    0  monstrous  !    0  strange  !    we  are  haunted.      Pray, 

masters  !  fly,  masters  !     Help  ! 

[Exeunt  Clowns. 


MR.    BUMBLE   AND   MRS.    CORNEY. 

ScEXE,  Mrs.  Cornet's  apartment.    A  small  round  table,  on  which  is  a 
furnished  tea-tray.     A  small  teakettle  on  thejire. 

MRS.  CORNEY  {leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table,  and  looking  reflect- 
ively at  the  fire).  Well,  I  'm  sure  we  have  all  on  us  a 
great  deal  to  be  thankful  for,  —  a  great  deal,  if  we  did  but 
know  it  !  Ah!  (Proceeds  to  make  the  tea.  Spills  water,  and  slightly  scalds 
her  hand.)  Drat  the  pot !  a  little  stupid  thing  that  only  holds 
a  couple  of  cups  !  What  use  is  it  of  to  anybody  !  Except  — 
except    to    a    poor   desolate   creature   like    me.      0    dear! 

{Dropping  into  her  chair,  and  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table  again.)      I  shall 

never  get  another  !  I  shall  never  get  another  —  like  him. 
{A  rap  is  heard.)  0,  COme  in  with  yoU  !  (sharply.)  Some  of  the 
old  women  dying,  I  suppose.  They  always  die  when  I  'm  at 
meals.  Don't  stand  there  letting  the  cold  air  in,  —  don't ! 
What 's  amiss  now,  ehl 

Mr.  Bumble  (outside).    Nothing,  ma'am;  nothing. 

Mrs.  C.    Dear  me  !  (in  a  much  sweeter  tone)  is  that  Mr.  Bumble  1 

!Mr.  B.  {entering  with  his  cocked  hat  in  one  hand,  and  a  bundle  in  the  other). 
At  your  service,  ma'am.  Shall  I  shut  the  door,  ma'am  1  (Shutsit.) 

Mrs.  C.    Hard  weather,  Mr.  Bumble. 

Mr.  B.  Hard,  indeed,  ma'am.  Anti  parocliial  weather  this, 
ma'auL     We  have  given  away,  Mrs.  Corney,  —  we  have  given 


96  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

away  a  matter  of  twenty  quartern  loaves  and  a  cheese  and  a 
half,  this  very  blessed  afternoon ;  and  yet  them  paupers  are 
not  contented. 

Mrs.  C.    Of  course  not.    When  would  they  be,  Mr.  Bumble  1 

{Sipping  her  tea.) 

Mr.  B.  When,  indeed,  ma'am  !  Why,  here  's  one  man  that, 
in  consideration  of  his  wife  and  large  family,  has  a  quartern 
loaf  and  a  good  pound  of  cheese,  full  weight.  Is  he  grateful, 
ma'am,  —  is  he  grateful  ]  Not  a  copper  fixrthing's  worth  of  it ! 
What  does  he  do,  ma'am,  but  ask  for  a  few  coals,  —  if  it 's  only 
a  pocket-handkerchief  full,  he  says !  Coals  !  What  would  he 
do  with  coals  1  Toast  his  cheese  with  'em,  and  then  come 
back  for  more.  That 's  the  way  with  these  people,  ma'am. 
Give  'em  a  apron  full  of  coals  to-day,  and  they  '11  come  back 
for  another  the  day  after  to-morrow,  as  brazen  as  alabaster. 
(Mrs,  Cmakes  signs  of  assent.)  I  never  see  anything  like  the  pitch 
it 's  got  to.  The  day  before  yesterday  a  man,  —  you  have 
been  a  married  woman,  ma'am,  and  I  may  mention  it  to  you,  — 
a  man  with  hardly  a  rag  upon  his  back  (IVIrs.  C.  looks  at  the  floor.) 
goes  to  our  ovex'seer's  door  when  he  has  got  company  coming  to 
dinner,  and  says  he  must  be  relieved,  Mrs.  Coi'ney.  As  he 
would  n't  go  away,  and  shocked  the  company  very  much,  our 
overseer  sent  him  out  a  pound  of  potatoes  and  half  a  pint  of 
oatmeal.  "  My  heart !  "  says  the  ungrateful  villain,  "  what  's 
the  use  of  this  to  me?  You  might  as  well  give  me  a  pair  of 
iron  spectacles  ! "  "  Very  good,"  says  our  overseer,  taking 
'em  away  again,  "you  won't  get  anything  else  here."  "  Then 
I  '11  die  in  the  streets  !  "  says  the  vagrant.  "  0  no,  you  won't," 
says  our  overseer. 

Mrs.  C.  Ha,  ha  !  That  was  very  good  !  So  like  Mr.  Gran- 
nett,  was  n't  it  1     Well,  Mr.  Bumble  ? 

Mr.  B.  Well,  ma'am,  he  went  away  ;  and  he  did  die  in  the 
streets.     There  's  a  obstinate  pauper  for  you  ! 

Mrs.  C.  It  beats  everything  I  could  have  believed.  But 
don't  you  think  out-of-door  relief  a  very  bad  thing,  any  way, 
Mr.  Bumble  1  You  're  a  gentleman  of  experience,  and  ought 
to  know.     Come. 


MR.  BUMBLE   AND   MRS.  CORNEY.  97 

Mb.  B.  Mrs.  Corney  {with  the  air  of  superior  information),  out-of- 
door  relief  properly  managed  —  properly  managed,  ma'am —  is 
the  parochial  safeguard.  The  great  principle  of  out-of-door 
relief  is,  to  give  the  paupers  exactly  what  they  don't  want, 
and  then  they  get  tired  of  coming. 

Mrs.  C.    Dear  me  !     Well,  that  is  a  good  one,  too ! 

Mr.  B.  Yes.  Betwixt  you  and  me,  ma'am,  that 's  the  great 
principle  ;  and  that 's  the  reason  why,  if  you  look  at  any  cases 
that  get  into  them  owdacious  newspapers,  you  '11  always  ob- 
serve that  sick  families  have  been  relieved  with  slices  of 
cheese.  That  's  the  rule  now,  Mrs.  Corney,  all  over  the 
country.  But,  however  (stooping  to  unpack  his  bundle),  these  are 
official  secrets,  ma'am ;  not  to  be  spoken  of,  except,  as  I  may 
say,  among  the  parochial  officers,  such  as  ourselves.  This  is 
the  port-wine,  ma'am,  that  the  board  ordered  for  the  infirm- 
ary ;  real,  fresh,  genuine  port-wine,  only  out  of  the  cask  this 
forenoon,  clear  as  a  bell,  no  sediment  !  (Sets  away  the  two  but- 
tles of  wine ;  folds  the  handkerchief  in  which  they  had  been  wrapped,  puts  it 
carefully  in  his  pocket,  and  takes  up  his  hat  as  if  to  go.) 

Mrs.  C.    You  '11  have  a  very  cold  walk,  Mr.  Bumble. 
Mr.  B.    It  blows,   ma'am   (turning  up  his  coat-collar),  enough  to 
blow  one's  ears   offi       (Moves  toward  the  door.) 

Mrs.  C.    Would  n't  you  —  would  n't  you  take  a  cup  of  teal 

(Mr.  B.  turns  back  his  coat-collar,  lays  his  hat  and  stick  upon  a  chair,  draws 
another  chair  up  to  the  table,  and  seats  himself  Mks.  C.  gets  another  cup 
and  saucer,  and  prepares  his  tea. )     Sweet  ]    ( Taking  up  the  sugar-basin.) 

Mr.  B.  Very  sweet  indeed,  ma'am.  (  Firing  his  etjes  tenderly  on 
Mrs.  C,  who  hands  him  the  tea.  Spreads  a  handkerchief  on  his  knees, 
fetching  occasionally  a  deep  sigh.)  You  have  a  cat,  ma'am,  I  see;  and 
kittens,  too,  I  declare  ! 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  so  fond  of  them,  Mr.  Bumble,  you  en  n't 
think.  They  are  so  happy,  so  frolicsome,  and  so  cheerful, 
that  they  are  quite  companions  for  me. 

Mr.  B.    Very  nice  animals,  ma'am  ;  so  very  domestic. 

Mrs.  C.  0  yes  !  so  fond  of  their  home,  too,  that  it  's  quite 
a  pleasure,  I  'm  sure. 

Mr.  B.  Mrs.  Corney,  ma'am  (sloivly,  and  marking  the  time  with  his 
teaspoon),  I  mean  to  say  this,  ma'am  :  that  any  cat,  or  kitten, 
5  O 


98  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

that  could  live  with  you,  ma'am,  and  not  be  fond  of  its  home, 
must  be  an  ass,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  C.    0  Mr.  Bumble  ! 

Mr.  B.  It 's  of  no  use  disguising  facts,  ma'am  (slowly  flourish- 
ing the  teaspoon)  ;  I  would  drown  it  myself,  with  pleasure. 

Mrs.  C.  Then  you  're  a  cruel  man  (holdmg  out  her  hand  for  his 
cup),  and  a  very  hard-hearted  man,  besides. 

Mr.  B.  Hard-hearted,  ma'am,  hard  !  (Squeezes  Mrs.  C.'s  little 
flnger  as  she  takes  the  cup,  slaps  his  heart  twice,  heaves  a  mighty  sigh,  and 
gradually  hitches  his  chair  around  the  table,  close  to  Mrs.  C.)  Hard- 
hearted, Mrs.  Corney  ]      {Stirring  his  tea,  and  looking  up  into  her  face.) 

Are  you  hard-hearted,  Mrs.  Corney  1 

Mrs.  C.  Dear  me  !  what  a  very  curious  question  from  a 
single  man  !  What  can  you  want  to  know  for,  Mr.  Bumble  ] 
(Mr.  B.  drinks  his  tea,  finishes  a  piece  of  toast,  whisks  the  a-umhs  off  his 
knees,  wipes  his  lips,  and  deliberately  kisses  Mrs.  C.)  Mr.  Bumble  (in  a 
frightened  whisper),  Mr.  Bumble,  I  shall  scream  !  (Mr.  B.puts  his 
arm  round  her  waist.  A  hasty  knock  is  heard  at  the  door.  Mr.  B.  darts  to 
the  wine  bottles,  and  begins  dusting  them  with  great  violence.)  Who  's  there  ] 
(loudly  and  sharply.) 

A  Pauper  (putting  her  head  in  at  the  door).  If  you  please,  mis- 
tress, old  Sally  is  a-going  fast. 

Mrs.  C.  Well,  what 's  that  to  mel  (angrily.)  I  can't  keep 
her  alive,  can  I  ] 

Pauper.  No,  no,  mistress,  nobody  can ;  she  's  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  help.  But  she  's  troubled  in  her  mind  ;  and 
when  the  fits  are  not  on  her,  —  and  that  's  not  often,  for  she 
is  dying  very  hai'd,  —  she  says  she  has  got  something  to  tell 
which  you  must  hear.  She  '11  never  die  quiet  till  you  come, 
mistress. 

Mrs.  C.  It  's  a  shame  that  old  women  can't  die  without 
purposely  annoying  their  betters  (muffling  herself  in  a  shawl). 
Mr.  Bumble,  perhaps  you  'd  better  stay  till  I  come  back,  lest 
anything  particular  should  occur.  (Amiably  to  Mr.  B.  ;  then  crossly 
to  the  pauper.)  Walk  fast!  don't  be  all  night  hobbling  out 
o'  the  way ! 


THE   SCHOOL   COMMITTEE.  99 


THE  SCHOOL  COMMITTEE. 

Mks.  Vestrt,  the  Minister's  Wife. 

Mrs.  Bluxt,  the  Deacon's  Wife. 

Mrs.  Brief,  the  Lawyer's  Wife. 

Mrs.  Pill,  the  Doctor's  Wife. 

Mrs.  Squash,  the  Fanner's  Wife. 

Mrs.  Lcg,  a  Widow  Lady,  rather  deaf. 

Miss  Prim,  an  ancient  Maiden,  once  a  Schoolmistress. 

Miss  Snap,  a  satirical  Young  Lady. 

Miss  Fairman,  the  Candidate  for  the  Village  School. 

All  present  but  Miss  Fairman. 

MRS.  VESTRY.    Ladies,  -we  are  all  assembled,  and  the 
young  lady  who  has  applied  for  the  village  school  is  in 
the  next  room.     Shall  I  invite  her  in  1 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Is  she  handsome  ?  I  have  no  idee  of  employ- 
ing any  beauty,  to  be  running  after  the  boys  when  she  should 
be  teaching  the  children. 

Mrs.   Vestry.    She   makes  no   pretensions   to   any   other 
beauty  than  that  of  the  mind,  I  believe. 
Mrs.  Blunt.    Let  her  come  in  then. 

Mrs.  V.  introduces  Miss  Fairman  to  Mrs.  Brief,  who  takes  her  by  the 

hand. 

Mrs.  Brief.  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Pill,  the 
lady  of  our  physician ;  to  Mrs.  Blunt,  the  wife  of  our  worthy 
deacon,  — 

Mrs.  Blunt.  And  as  well  entitled  to  be  called  ladi/  as  the 
best  of  you,  let  me  tell  you  !      Wife,  forsooth  ! 

Mrs.  Brief.  I  plead  not  guilty,  as  we  lawyers  say,  of  any 
intentional  disrespect.  (She  then  goes  on  introducing  Miss  Fairman.) 
This  is  Miss  Prim,  who  may  be  called  a  fellow-laborer  with 
you  in  the  field  of  education. 

Miss  Prim.  No  longer  so,  I  desire  to  be  thankful !  I  left 
the  profession  before  everp  body  entered  it. 

Miss  Snap.  You  left  it  when  your  pupils  left  you,  I  have 
been  told ;  but  it  was  so  long  ago  I  do  not  remember  the  cir- 
cumstances. 


100  PUBLIC   AND   PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Miss  Prim  to  Miss  Sxap.  A  few  more  years  would  be  of 
infinite  service  to  some  folks. 

Mrs.  Brief.  Miss  Fairman,  this  is  Miss  Snap,  whom  you 
will  find  a  ready  assistant  in  cutting  such  twigs  as  you  may 
not  be  able  to  bend.  {She  lets  go  Miss  Fairmax,  ivkose  hand  Mrs. 
Vestkt  takes.) 

Mrs.  Vestry.  Let  me  introduce  you,  Miss,  to  Mrs.  Squash, 
the  wife  of  one  of  our  richest  parishioners ;  and  Mrs.  Lug, 
who  is  rather  hard  of  hearing,  but  whom  you  will  find  zeal- 
ously interested  in  the  cause  of  education. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  You  had  better  take  cheers,  ladies,  and  set 
down  while  the  examination  goes  on.  {All  sit.)  Young  wo- 
man, come  here.  I  warn  you  that  you  will  have  a  severe 
examination ;  for  we  ladies  have  complained  so  much  of  for- 
mer schoolma'ams  that  the  men  have  made  us  a  committee  to 
examine  applicants,  and  suit  ourselves ;  and  we  are  going 
to  do  the  thing  thoroughly.  Pi'ay,  what 's  your  name,  young 
woman  1 

Miss  Fairman.    Susan  Fairman,  madam. 

Mrs.  Blunt.    How  old  are  you  1 

Miss  Prim.  I  object  to  that  question  as  an  improper  one. 
I  would  not  tell  my  age  to  any  one. 

Miss  Snap.  The  young  lady  may  not  have  the  same  ob- 
jection. 

Miss  Fairman.    T  shall  be  eighteen  in  a  few  days. 

Mrs.  Lug  (holding  her  haiid  tip  to  her  ear  as  a  deaf  person  does). 
Did  you  say  you  were  eighty  years  old,  miss  ] 

Miss  Fairman.    No,  madam  ;  only  eightee?2-. 

Mrs.  Squash.  Why,  you  have  hardly  left  off  tires  !  Pray, 
can  you  make  a  punhin-'^ie  % 

Miss  Snap.  If  she  can't,  I  dare  say  she  can  make  one  of 
squash. 

Mrs.  Squash.  I  should  like  to  have  my  questions  answered 
by  the  gal  herself. 

Miss  Fairman.  Madam,  I  never  made  a  pie  of  the  kind 
you  name. 

Mrs.  Squash.    A  pretty  farmer's  wife  you  'd  make  ! 


THE   SCHOOL   COMMITTEE.  101 

Miss  Fairman.  Madam,  I  applied  for  a  school,  and  not  for 
a  husband. 

Mrs.  Lug  {holding  her  hand  to  her  ear).  What!  does  she  want 
a  husband  1  Why,  there  's  Jonathan  Squash,  jest  old  enough 
for  her. 

Mrs.  Vestry.  Ladies,  let  us  not  wander  from  the  purpose 
of  our  meeting.  Miss  Fairman,  will  you  be  good  enough  to 
inform  the  committee  where  you  were  educated,  and  the  ex- 
tent of  your  studies. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Ay,  ay  !  Where  were  you  eddicated  1  what  do 
you  know  ]  Come,  I  '11  question  you  myself.  In  what  state 
were  you  born  in  the  world  1 

Miss  Fairman.    In  Massachusetts,  madam. 

;Mrs.  Blunt.    In  Massafiddlestick  ! 

Miss  Snap.  Mrs.  Blunt  expected  you  would  say  you  were 
bom  in  a  state  of  sin  and  misery.  She  is  a  sound  divine,  but 
Ro  geographer. 

Mrs.  Vestry.  Please  to  inform  us,  Miss  Fairman,  of  such 
particulars  as  we  may  need  to  aid  us  in  our  judgment. 

Miss  Fairman.  I  have  had  a  good  school  education,  ladies ; 
but  pi-etend  to  nothing  more  than  is  necessary  to  qualify  me 
to  teach  the  common  branches  in  a  common  village  school, 
wliich  is  all  I  understand  yours  to  be. 

Miss  Prim.  That  will  never  do  for  Smartville  :  we  must 
have  something  more  than  coymyion.  In  my  day,  no  teacher 
with  such  pretensions  would  have  dared  to  apply  for  a  school. 
Have  you  ever  studied  algebra  1 

Miss  Fairman.  Never.  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  taught 
in  a  common  village  school. 

Miss  Prim.  It  is  not ;  but  it  is  the  basis  of  a  good  educa- 
iiou.     No  lady  should  be  ignorant  of  algebra. 

Mrs.  Lug.  What !  don't  the  gal  know  there  is  such  a  thing 
t3  a  Zebra  ?      {Holding  her  hand  up  to  her  ear.) 

Miss  Snap.  This  knowledge  would  be  of  more  use  to  her 
than  algebra.  Pray,  Miss  Prim,  did  you  ever  study  algebra 
yourself  ] 

Miss  PiuM.  Yes ;  I  spent  two  weeks  upon  the  delightful 
Bcience,  and  almost  made  myself  in!strcs;s  of  it. 


102  PUBLIC   AND   PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  Pill.    Did  you  ever  make  any  use  of  it  afterwards  1 

Miss  Prim.  I  came  to  examine,  but  uot  to  be  catechized, 
madam. 

Miss  Snap.  When  a  stocking  was  minus  a  foot,  did  your 
algebra  ever  make  it  a  plus .? 

Mrs.  Lug.  What !  does  the  gal  blush  ?  Well,  I  like  to  see 
young  folks  blush. 

Mrs.  Pill.  Pray,  Miss  Fairman,  have  you  ever  learned 
Latin  1 

Miss  Fairman.  No,  madam ;  my  father  did  not  think  it  so 
important  for  females  as  their  own  language,  and  he  never 
encouraged  the  study  of  it  by  his  daughters. 

Mrs.  Pill.  He  was  a  dolt.  Why,  Latin,  miss,  is  the  basis 
of  every  learned  profession  ;  and  my  husband,  Dr.  Pill,  says 
he  could  not  prescribe  without  it. 

Mrs.  Squash.  The  more  is  the  pity  !  They  only  use  Latin 
to  hide  the  2^iso7i  names  of  their  nasty  drugs.  My  husband 
once  took  it  into  his  head  that  every  good  farmer  must  know 
Latin,  that  he  might  know  the  larned  names  of  vegetables ; 
and  so  every  single  tree  was  called  an  Ar-bor  after  that ;  and 
every  squash,  an  Igu(ma-falcifo7^}na-peripatetica,  or  some  such 
nonsense.  For  my  part,  I  hope  to  hear  a  squash  called  a 
squash  as  long  as  I  bear  the  name. 

Mrs.  Vestry.  Ladies,  let  us  not  forget  the  object  of  our 
meeting.  Miss  Fairman,  may  I  ask  at  what  school  you  were 
educated  1 

Miss  Fairman.  At  the  Female^Monitorial  School,  madam, 
in  Boston. 

Mrs.  Lug.  What  school  is  that  1  A  tori/  school !  that  will 
never  do,  miss  ;  we  are  all  wigs  here. 

Mrs.  Squash.  I  really  believe  the  gal  is  a  Jackson-man  in 
disguise. 

Miss  Fairman,  Ladies,  you  mistake  the  nature  as  well  as 
the  name  of  the  school.  It  is  called  monitorial  because  the 
elder  pupils,  who  assist  the  teacher,  are  called  monitors. 

Miss  Prim.  Ay,  ay  :  this  is  one  of  the  new-fangled  notions 
that  have  made  instruction  so  vulgar  an  employment  that  I 


THE   SCHOOL    COMMITTEE.  103 

cannot  endure  it.  When  children  take  up  the  ferule,  it  is 
time  tor  t(S  {drawing  herself  up)    to  lay  it  dowu. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  You  don't  intend  to  introduce  any  such  no- 
tions here,  miss  1 

Miss  Fairman.  I  hoped,  madam,  that  a  judicious  use  of 
monitors  would  not  be  objected  to. 

Mrs.  Squash.  What !  do  you  mean  to  set  other  children 
to  teach  my  darters  ? 

Miss  Fairman.  I  should  like  to  employ  the  more  advanced 
pupils,  whosesoever  children  they  may  be,  in  instructing  those 
who  know  less  than  themselves. 

Mrs.  Brief.  Then  Mrs.  Cowyard's  brats  may  be  set  to 
teach  our  children,  Mrs.  Vestry  ! 

Mrs.  Vestry.  I  have  no  objection  to  that,  if  her  children 
know  more  than  ours.  My  husband  says  we  should  always 
be  willing  to  receive  instruction  from  any  source,  however 
humble. 

Miss  Prim.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Vestry  would  even  allow  that 
children  are  competent  to  teach  children.     Preposterous  idea ! 

Mrs.  Vestry.  I  know  he  would  allow  it;  for  I  have  often 
heard  him  say  that  men  are  only  children  of  a  larger  growth, 
and  there  was  no  more  difference  between  his  attainments  and 
those  of  his  parishioners  than  there  is  between  some  children 
and  others.  He  considers  himself  as  a  monitor  amongst  his 
bretlu'en. 

Mrs.  Brief.  If  he  is  only  a  monitor,  pray,  who  is  our 
teacher  1  or  have  not  we  any  ] 

Mrs.  Vestry.  He  is  accustomed  to  call  the  Saviour  the 
great  Teacher.  But  I  think  we  had  better  ascertain  how  tlie 
young  lady  has  been  instructed,  and  what  she  has  learned^ 
before  we  condenm  her  system  utterly. 

\  Mrs.  Pill.  I  should  like  to  ask  her  one  question.  Pray, 
miss,  if  one  of  your  pupils  should  cut  her  finger  badly,  what 
would  you  do  1 

Miss  Snap  {aside  to  Miss  Fairman).  Tell  her  you  should 
send  for  her  husband.  Dr.  Pill,  and  you  will  make  her  your 
friend  forever. 


)L04  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Miss  Fairman.    I  should  probably  send  her  home,  madam. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Come,  come,  let  me  put  a  serious  question, 
young  woman,  how  many  comman-de-ments  are  there  % 

Miss  Fairman.    Ten  were  given  by  Moses,  madam. 

Mrs.  Lug.    How  many  did  she  say? 

Miss  Snap.    Ten. 

Mrs.  Lug.    Ay,  ay  ;  that 's  right ;  the  gal 's  right  for  once. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Now  tell  me  how  much  of  the  Primer  you 
know  by  heart.  What  comes  next  arier  "  The  cat  doth  play, 
and  after  slay  "  % 

Miss  Snap  (aside  to  Miss  F).  Tell  her,  "  Whales  in  the  sea, 
great  fish  they  be." 

Miss  Fairman.    I  must  confess  my  ignorance,  madam. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Young  woman,  I  don't  know  what  my  hus- 
band, Deacon  Blunt,  would  say,  to  find  you  so  ignorant  of  the 
fir.st  principles  of  religion. 

Miss  Fairman.  Madam,  I  would  respectfully  remark  that 
I  have  been  taught  to  draw  the  principles  of  my  religion  from 
the  Bible,  and  not  from  the  Primer. 

Mrs.  Blunt.  Yes,  that  is  one  o^  Mr.  Vestry's  notions ;  but 
everybody  learned  the  Primer  when  I  was  a  gal.  I  could  say 
it  backwards  as  well  as  forruds. 

Miss  Prim.  Will  the  young  lady  be  good  enough  to  inform 
the  committee  whether  she  has  studied  botany  ] 

Miss  Fairman.    I  have,  madam. 

Miss  Prim.  Did  you  study  the  philosophical  part  of  the 
science,  which  treats  of  the  loves  and  the  language  of  plants  % 

Miss  Fairman.  No,  madam ;  I  have  only  studied  their 
structure  and  uses. 

Miss  Prim.  I  supposed  you  had  neglected  the  only  ethereal 
part  of  the  science.  This  comes  of  your  new-fangled  system, 
I  suppose. 

Miss  Fairman.  No,  indeed,  madam.  Nonsense  can  be 
taught  by  the  monitorial  plan  as  well  as  by  any  other.  The 
subjects  taught  depend  upon  the  teacher,  and  not  upon  the 
system. 

Mrs.  Blunt.    I  have  seen  enough  of  the  gal.     She  will 


THE   SCHOOL    COMMITTEE.  105 

never  do  for  me.     She  don't  even  know  her  Primer.   (She  dashes 

out.) 

Miss  Sxap.    "  The  eagle's  flight  is  out  of  sight." 

Mrs.  Brief.  Mr.  Brief  will  never  suffer  his  children  to  be 
taught  by  Mrs.  Cowjard's  brats.  [Exit. 

Miss  Snap.    "  Out,  out,  Br-ief  candle  !  " 

^Irs.  Pill.    I  cannot  swallow  her  ignorance  of  Latin.   [Exit. 

Miss  Snap.  Because  she  could  not  swallow  your  pills,  I 
suppose. 

Mrs.  Squash.  I  can  never  vote  for  a  miss  so  young  that 
she  cannot  make  a  pnnki7i--pie.  —  I  thought,  at  first,  she  might 
do  for  my  son  Jonathan  (Aside).  [Exit. 

]Miss  SxAP.  So,  because  she  can't  cook  a  punkin,  she  is  not 
allowed  to  become  a  Squash  ! 

Miss  Prim.  I  must  withhold  my  approbation  from  one  who 
has  no  soul  for  the  loves  and  language  of  flowers,  and  who  has 
never  studied  algebra. 

Miss  Snap.  And  whose  charms,  being  phis,  would  render 
yours  a  negative  quantity. 

IMiss  Prim.  My  children  —  I  mean  my  neighbors',  for  I 
desire  to  be  thankful  that  I  have  none  of  the  nasty  things  — 
shall  never  go  to  a  monitorial  school  with  my  consent.  Moni- 
torial, indeed !  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Lug.    Who  did  she  say  was  dead  ? 

Miss  Snap.    Your  tories,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Lug.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  them.  I  had  rather  they 
had  repented ;  but  they  sha'  n't  get  foothold  in  our  village 
while  I  am  on  the  committee.     Good  by.  [Exit. 

Miss  Snap.  A  good  riddance  to  them  all !  Now,  Miss 
Fairman,  let  me  congratulate  you  upon  escaping  from  such 
patrons. 

Mrs.  Vestry.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  dear.  You  have 
borne  the  trial  modestly  and  patiently.  My  husband  has 
been  applied  to  for  a  preceptress  of  an  academy  ;  and  I  am 
Bure  that,  after  he  has  heard  the  result  of  this  meeting,  ho 
will  confer  the  situation  upon  my  young  friend.  Come,  let 
us  find  him. 

5* 


106  PUBLIC   AND  PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 


MR.   GREGSBURY  AND  THE  DEPUTATION. 

Mr.  Gregsbury,  a  Member  of  Parliament.     Mr.  Pdgsttles  and 

Constituents. 

Scene,  room  in  Mr.  Gregsburt's  Jiouse.  Table  with  books  and  papers  ^ 
chair ;  basket  for  papers.  Enter  Gregsbury,  frowning  prodigiously 
Voices  without. 

r^  REGSBURY.  Here  's  a  pretty  go  !  Elected  to  Parlia^ 
VlT'  ment,  —  comfortably  settled  in  my  seat,  —  and  here 
come  my  constituents  to  find  fault  with  me  and  —  politely  — . 
(with  sarcastic  emphasis)  invite  me  to  resign  !  There  they  come  ! 
{Throws  himself  into  chair  at  table,  and  busies  himself  with  papefs.) 

Enter  Pugstyles  and  several  Constituents,  pushed  in  at  the  door  by  others 
behind.     Crowd  enters  room. 

G.  [all  smiles).  Gentlemen,  you  are  welcome.  I  am  rejoiced 
to  see  you.  Excuse  me  —  one  moment.  [Appears  very  busy  with 
papers. ) 

First  Constituent.    Hey  !  rejoiced,  is  he  1 

Pugstyles.    He  won't  be,  when  he  knows  our  business. 

Second  Con.    Blest  if  he  will !     At  him,  Pugstyles  !     You 

are  the  spokesman.       (Trying  to  push  P.  forwards.) 

P.  No,  no  !  You  are  the  man  !  (Resisting,  and  trying  to  push 
Second  Con.  before  him.) 

First  Con.  What  are  you  afraid  of  "J  (Advances  boldly.)  He  's 
only  a  man ! 

P.    To  be  sure  ! 

Second  Con.    Afraid,  indeed ! 
All  advance   boldly.      Gregsbury  tosses  a  bundle  of  papers  into  basket, 
and  rises  majestically.     Constituents  retreat  precipitately,  all  but  Pug- 
styles, who  is  left  confronting  Gregsbury. 

G.  Now,  gentlemen  !  You  are  dissatisfied  with  my  con- 
duct 1 

P.  (assumes  an  air  of  great  dignity,  frowning  fiercely).  Yes,  Mr. 
Gregsbury,  we  are  !  (Looks  behind  him,  to  see  if  he  has  the  support  of  his 
friends. ) 

G.  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me  1  or  is  that  my  old  friend  ?  It 
is !  it  is  Pugstyles  ! 


MR.  GREGSBURY  AND  THE  DEPUTATION.      107 

P.    I  am  that  man. 

G.  Piigstvles,  give  me  your  hand  !  Pugstyles,  my  dear 
friend,  I  am  very  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  crowd. 

P.  I  am  very  soriy  to  be  here,  sir.  But  your  conduct, 
Mr.  Gregsbury ! 

G.  My  conduct,  Pugstyles  1  (Assumes  an  oratorical  attitude,  and 
looks  round  upon  the  deputation.)  My  conduct,  gentlemen,  has  been, 
and  ever  will  be,  regulated  by  a  sincere  regard  for  the  inter- 
ests of  this  great  and  happy  country.  Hem  !  Whether  I 
look  at  home  or  abroad,  whether  I  behold  the  peaceful,  indus- 
trious communities  of  our  glorious  country,  her  rivers  covered 
with  steamboats,  her  roads  with  locomotives,  her  sti'eets  with 
cabs,  her  skies  with  balloons  of  a  power  and  magnitude  hitherto 
unknown  in  the  history  of  aeronasitics,  —  I  say,  hem  !  I  say, 
whether  I  look  at  home,  or,  stretching  my  eyes  farther,  con- 
template the  boTuidless  prospect  of  conquest  and  possession 
achieved  by  British  conquest  and  British  valor  which  is 
outspread  before  me,  I  clasp  my  hands,  and,  turning  my 
eyes  to  the  broad  expanse  above  my  head,  exclaim,  "Thank 
Heaven,  I  am  a  Briton  !  " 

Deputation  is  overawed  /or  a  moment.     Constituents  glance  from,  one  to  the 

other,  and  fall  back. 

Third  Con.  {ina  squeaking  voice,  fvm  behind  the  crowd).    Gammon! 

G.  Did  I  imderstand  the  gentleman  to  remark  Gammon  ? 
What  does  the  gentleman  mean  by  gammon  ?  If  he  means 
by  gammon  that  I  gi'ow  a  little  too  fervid  in  extolling  my 
native  land,  I  admit  the  full  justice  of  the  remark.  I  am 
proud  of  this  free  and  happy  country.  My  form  dilates,  my 
eye  glistens,  my  breast  heaves,  my  heart  swells,  my  bosom 
bums,  when  I  call  to  mind  her  — 

Third  Con.    Gammon  ! 

G.  {scratches  his  head  a  moment).    Gentlemen,  what  do  you  want  1 

p.    We  wish,  sir,  to  ask  you  a  few  questions. 

G.    As  you  please,  gentlemen.    My  time  is  yours  —  and  my 

COlUltiy's,  —  ovd  —  my  COimtry's.      {Throws  himself  into  chair.) 
P.  puts  on  .spectacles,  and  takes  uritten  paper  from  his  pocket.     First,  Sec- 
ond, Third,  and  Fourth  Constituents  also  put  on  spectacles,  and 
take  papers  from  their  pockets. 


108  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

P.  Question  number  one.  (Reads.  The  others  follow  him,  with 
fingers  on  papers.)  Whether,  su%  you  did  not  give  a  pledge, 
previous  to  your  election,  that  you  would  put  down  the  prac- 
tice of  coughing  and  groaning  in  the  House  of  Commons ; 
and  whether  you  did  not  submit  to  be  coughed  and  groaned 
down  in  the  very  first  debate  of  the  session  1 
P.  puts  off  spectacles,  and  stai-es  triumphantlij  at  G.  Fiest,  Second, 
Third,  and  Fourth  Constituents  do  the  same. 

G.  {blandly).    Go  on  to  the  next  one,  my  dear  Pugstyles. 
Spectacles  are  resumed  all  round. 

P.  Question  number  two.  (Reads.)  Whether  you  did  not 
also  pledge  yourself  to  astonish  the  government,  and  make  it 
shrink  in  its  shoes  ;  and  whether  you  have  astonished  the  gov- 
ernment, and  made  it  shrink  in  its  shoes  ?  (Off  spectacles.)  Have 
you  any  explanation  to  offer  with  reference  to  that  question, 
sir? 

G.    Certainly  not,  sir  ! 

Constituents  look  fiercely  at  each  other,  shaking  spectacles. 

P.  Question  number  three.  (Spectacles  resumed.  Reads.)  Wheth- 
er you  did  not  lately  desert  your  colleague,  whom  you  were 
pledged  to  support,  and  vote  on  the  other  side,  because  the 
wife  of  a  leader  on  the  other  side  had  invited  Mrs.  Gregsbury 
to  an  evening  party  1 

G.    Go  on  !  go  on  ! 

P.  (after  exchanging  fierce  looks  with  CoNSTiTUENfs).  Question 
number  four,  and  last.  (Reads.)  Whether,  sir,  you  did  not 
pledge  yourself  to  oppose  everything  proposed  by  the  other 
side,  and,  in  short,  in  your  own  memorable  words,  to  play  the 
mischief  with  everj^thing  and  everybody  1  Now,  sir  !  (Puts 
tip  spectacles,  and  folds  paper. ) 

PiRST,  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth  Cons,  (putting  up  sjKctades 
and  papers),    Now,  sir  ! 

G.    I  deny  everything  ! 

Several  Cons.    Resign ! 

P.    You  hear,  sir  ! 

G.  (springing  to  his  feet).  Mr.  Pugstyles  !  and  gentlemen  !  hem! 
(Pompously.)  I  am  requested  by  you  to  resign  my  seat  in  the 
councils  of  the  nation. 


SCENE   FROM   "THE  LOVE   CHASE."  109 

P.    Precisely. 

G.  [bowing  lojldy).  Precisely.  Very  explicit.  Resign !  Gen- 
tlemen and  Pugstyles !  next  to  the  welfare  of  our  free  and 
happy  countiy,  whose  power  and  resources  are,  I  sincerely 
believe,  illimitable,  I  value  that  noble  independence  which 
is  an  Englishman's  proudest  boast,  and  which  I  fondly  hope  to 
bequeath  to  my  children  and  to  my  children's  children, 
Pugstyles  and  gentlemen,  untarnished  and  unsullied.  There- 
fore, actuated  by  no  personal  motives,  but  moved  only  by 
high  and  great  constitutional  considerations,  which  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  explain,  for  they  are  really  beneath  the  com- 
prehension of  the  vulgar  [advances  with  formidable  strides,  and  fia-ce 
looks),  of  the  mean  [bows  to  Pugstyles),  the  ignorant  [bows 
to  one  Constituent  qfler  another  ;  they  retreat  before  him),  the  illiterate, 
the  base-born,  the  —  Hem  !  for  these  reasons,  I  say,  gen- 
tlemen and  Pugstyles  !  I  would  rather  keep  my  seat,  and  intend 
doing  so  !  Good  day  !  Good  day,  Pugstyles  !  Good  day,  gen- 
tlemen ! 

They  retreat  pell-mell  before  him,  and  he  folloios  them  out,  bowing  and  gesticu- 
lating, and  repeating  his  good  day  with  a  variety  of  intonations  ;  scene 
closes  with  confusion. 


SCENE    FROM    "THE    LOVE    CHASE." 

WiLDRAKE ;    Constance. 

A  room  in  Sir  William  Fondlove's.     Enter  Constance. 

CONSTANCE.    The  booby  !  He  must  fall  in  love,  indeed! 
And  now  he  's  naught  but  sentimental  looks. 
And  sentences  pronounced  'twixt  breath  and  voice, 
And  attitudes  of  tender  languishment  ! 
Nor  can  I  get  from  him  the  name  of  her 
Hath  turned  him  from  a  stock  into  a  fool. 
Ho  hems  and  haws,  now  titters,  now  looks  grave ! 
Begins  to  speak,  and  halts  !     Takes  off'  his  eyes 
To  fall  in  contemplation  on  a  chair, 


110  PUBLIC  AND   PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 

A  table,  or  the  ceiling,  wall,  or  floor ! 
I  '11  plague  him  worse  and  worse  !     0,  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Wildeake. 

Wild.    Despite  her  spiteful  usage,  I  'm  resolved 
To  tell  her  now.     Dear  neighbor  Constance  ! 

Con.  Fool ! 

Accost  me  like  a  lady,  sir  !     I  hate 
The  name  of  neighbor  ! 

Wild.  Mistress  Constance,  then,  — 

I  '11  positively  call  thee  that. 

Con.  Don  't  call  me  anything  ! 

I  hate  to  hear  thee  speak,  to  look  at  thee, 
To  dwell  in  the  same  house  with  thee  ! 

Wild.  In  what 

Have  I  offended? 

Con.  What !  —  I  hate  an  ape  ! 

Wild.    An  ape! 

Con.  Who  bade  thee  ape  the  gentleman  ? 

And  put  on  dress  that  don't  belong  to  thee  % 
Go  !  change  thee  with  thy  whipper-in  or  huntsman, 
And  none  will  doubt  thou  wearest  thy  own  clothes. 

Wild.    A  pretty  pass  !     Mocked  for  the  very  dress 
I  bought  to  pleasure  her  !     Untoward  things 
Are  women  !      (Aside,  —  walks  backwards  and forvxirds.) 

Con.    Do  you  call  that  walking  ]     Pray, 
What  makes  you  twist  your  body  so,  and  take 
Such  pains  to  turn  your  toes  out  1     If  you  'd  walk, 
Walk  thus  !     Walk  like  a  man,  as  I  do  now  !     ( Walking.) 
Is  yours  the  way  a  gentleman  should  walk  ? 
You  neither  walk  like  man  nor  gentleman ! 
I  'U  show  you  how  you  walk.     (Mimics  him.)      Do  you  call  that 
walking  "i 

Wild.    My  thanks  for  a  driU-sergeant  twice  a  day 
For  her  sake  !     (Aside.) 

Con.  Now,  of  aU  things  in  the  world. 

What  made  you  dance  last  night  1 

Wild.  What  made  me  dance  1 


SCENE   FROM    "THE   LOVE   CHASE."  Ill 

Con.    Right !     It  was  anything  but  dancing  !     Steps 
That  nevei-  came  from  dancing  school,  — nor  EngUsh, 
Nor  Scotch,  nor  Irish  !     You  must  try  to  cut ; 
And  how  you  did  it !     (Cuts.)     That 's  the  way  to  cut ! 
And  then  you  chass6  !     Thus  you  went,  and  thus  (Mimicking 
him), 

As  though  you  had  been  playing  at  hop,  skip. 

And  jump  !     And  yet  you  looked  so  monstrous  pleased, 

And  played  the  simpleton  with  such  a  grace. 

Taking  the  tittering  for  compliment, 

I  could  have  boxed  you  soundly  for  't.     Ten  times 

Denied  I  that  I  knew  you. 

AViLD.  Twenty  guineas 

Were  better  in  the  gutter  thrown,  than  gone 
To  fee  a  dancing  master  !     (Aside.) 

Con.  And  you  're  grown 

An  amateur  in  music  !     What  fine  air 
Was  that  you  praised  last  night "? —  "  The  Widow  Jones  "  ! 
A  country  jig  they  've  turned  into  a  song. 
You  asked  "If  it  had  come  from  Italy*?" 
The  lady  blushed,  and  held  her  peace,  and  then 
You  blushed,  and  said,  "  Perhaps  it  came  from  France !  " 
And  then,  when  blushed  the  lady  more,  nor  spoke, 
You  said,  "  At  least  it  came  from  Germany  !  " 
The  air  was  English  !  —  a  true  English  air  ; 
A  downright  English  air  !     A  common  air. 
Old  as  "  When  Good  King  Arthur."     Not  a  square, 
Court,  alley,  street,  or  lane  about  the  town, 
In  which  it  is  not  whistled,  played,  or  sung  ! 
But  you  must  have  it  come  from  Italy, 
Or  Germany,  or  France.     Go  home  !-    Go  home 
To  Lincolnshire,  and  mind  thy  dog  and  horn  ! 
You  '11  never  do  for  town  !     "  The  Widow  Jones  " 
To  come  from  Italy  !     Stay  not  in  town. 
Or  you  '11  be  married  to  the  Widow  Jones, 
Since  you  've  forsworn,  you  say,  the  Widow  Green  ! 
And  morn  and  night  they  '11  diu  your  ears  with  her  ! 


112  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

"  Well  met,  dear  Master  Wildrake.     A  fine  day  ! 

Pray,  can  you  tell  whence  came  the  Widow  Jones  1 " 

They  love  a  jest  in  town  !  —  To  Lincolnshire  ! 

You  '11  never  do  for  town  !  —  To  Lincolnshire  ! 

'*  The  Widow  Jones  "  to  come  from  Italy  !  [Exit. 


MRS.  WRIGHT'S    CONVERSATION  WITH  HER  IRISH 

ACQUAINTANCE. 

Mrs.  Wright  and  Judy. 

Scene,  a  small  study  in   a  country  house,  —  a  glass  door  opening  into  the 

garden. 

MRS.  WRIGHT.  Come  in.  0  Judy,  is  it  you]  Come 
in  and  sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  you  want  with  me. 

Judy  (seating  herself  at  once).  Bedad,  my  lady,  I'm  after  comin' 
here  a  power  o'  times,  strivin'  to  spake  to  yer  ladyship ;  an' 
niver  could  I  git  so  much  as  a  sight  o'  ye. 

Mrs.  W.  I  am  always  in  this  room  after  breakfast,  waiting 
to  see  any  one  who  may  happen  to  have  business  with  me.  I 
sit  here  regularly  from  ten  to  eleven  o'clock ;  and  I  certainly 
never  saw  you  at  the  glass  door  till  this  morning. 

Judy.  0,  my  lady,  sure  I  did  n't  suppose  you  would  use 
me  like  the  common  sort,  —  me  that  was  rared  dacent,  an' 
didn't  mane  to  trouble  you,  but  jist  to  ask  a  question,  an'  no 
more  about  it. 

Mrs.  W.  It  is  not  out  of  any  disrespect  to  you,  Judy,  that 
I  was  not  able  to  see  you  at  another  hour  — 

Judy  (rising  and  making  a  courtesy.)  I  am  obliged  to  ye,  my 
lady. 

Mrs.  W.  Bat  as  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do^  I  am  not  certain 
of  being  found  at  home  or  at  leisure  at  any  hour  of  the  day ; 
so,  for  the  convenience  of  both  parties,  I  thought  it  best  to  fix 
an  hovir  when  you  would  all  be  sure  to  see  me. 

Judy.    That  makes  a  differ  certently.     Well,  I  suppose  as 


CONVERSATION   WITH   AN  IRISH   ACQUAINTANCE.      113 

I  am  here,  I  may  as  well  spake  what  I  have  to  say,  if  it 's  not 
inconvenient  1 

Mrs.  W.  Not  at  all :  speak  out  at  once.  What  can  I  do 
for  you  ] 

Judy  (sighing).    Times  is  very  hard,  my  lady, 

Mrs.  W.  We  require  to  exert  ourselves  to  get  on  in  them, 
certainly. 

Judy.  An'  I  'm  willin'  to  do  it,  — proud  an'  willin'  to  do  it; 
and  that  brought  me  to  yer  ladyship,  to  see  if  there  was  e'er 
a  little  situation  about  yerself  or  the  young  ladies  —  may  the 
Lord  keep  them  an'  you  in  health  an'  happiness !  —  that 
would  shuit  me,  an'  bring  in  a  little  arnin' ;  for  I  declare  to 
God  I  'ra  a'most  naked.  It 's  a  borrowt  cloak  an'  a  borrowt 
coat  that 's  on  me  this  blessed  day,  and  my  mother's  apron  —r 
God  bless  her !  —  an'  so  many  of  us  boys  an'  girls  strivin'  to 
keep  the  bit  an'  the  sup  amongst  them,  that  I  may  say  she 's 
a'most  broke  with  it. 

Mrs.  W.  I  am  really  glad  to  find,  Judy,  that  you  have  the 
courage  to  begin  to  earn  your  own  livelihood ;  and  if  I  can  in 
any  way  help  you  to  it,  you  may  depend  on  my  most  ready 
assistance.  What  would  you  wish  to  do  1  What  do  you  feel 
yourself  more  particularly  fit  for  1 

Judy.  Anythin'  at  all,  my  lady.  I  am  jist  fit  for  any  situ- 
ation at  all  that 's  not  anyway  onrasonable  ;  for  I  'm  wake  in 
mj'self,  my  lady,  an'  rared  in  dacency,  an'  could  take  the  care 
of  childer,  or  wait  on  young  ladies,  or  the  like  of  them  sort  of 
respectable  attindincies. 

Mrs.  W.  The  care  of  children  !  You  would  not  find  that  a 
situation  suited  to  weakly  health.  There  is  almost  no  place 
requiring  more  strength  of  body  or  more  evenness  of  temper. 

Judy.  Timper,  my  lady  !  Thank  God  there  's  none  can 
fault  my  timper.  It 's  too  quiet  I  am,  an'  let's  the  people 
impose  on  me,  I  do,  with  my  quietness  of  timper.  An'  for 
strin^th  —  glory  be  to  God  !  —  I  'm  strong  an'  able,  as  the 
neighbors  can  testify,  an'  far  more  than  that,  if  I  had  it  to 
do ;  an'  that 's  all  that 's  in  it  for  strongness  anyway. 

Mrs.  W.    You  don't  quite  understand  me,  Judy. 


114  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Judy.  Beggin'  yer  pardon,  my  lady,  I  do  ;  an'  more.  An' 
for  carryin'  cliilder,  walkin'  out  with  them,  an'  kapin  them 
clane,  and  hushaby  the  baby,  an'  all  the  contrariness  of  them, 
—  swate,  innercent  creatures  !  —  I  '11  go  bail  there  's  ne'er  a 
girl  in  Ireland  better  shuited  to  the  work  than  meself,  though 
/  say  it. 

Mrs.  W.  (smiling).  Still,  Judy,  more  may  be  required  of 
you  in  this  line,  in  a  really  respectable  family,  than  you  are 
at  all  aware  of ;  and  — 

Judy.  Respectable  !  Sure  it's  into  no  other  I  would  go  by 
any  manes,  nor  would  yer  ladyship  wish  me. 

Mrs.  W.  Surely  not ;  but  as  the  duties  of  a  nurse  or  nurse- 
maid have  altered  very  much  of  late  years,  and  as  perhaps 
some  other  department  might  suit  you  better,  suppose  you 
■were  to  think  of  — 

Judy.  I  've  no  objection  to  be  lady's-maid,  —  none  in  life, 
my  lady ;  an'  in  regard  of  sittin'  up  of  a  night  when  they 
would  be  at  their  parties,  an'  company,  an'  that,  of  coorse  the 
ladies  would  consider  that  I  should  have  ray  good  sleep  out 
of  a  mornin'. 

Mrs.  W.    Can  you  cut  out  and  make  a  gown,  Judy  1 

Judy  (turning  herself  round).  I  make  my  own,  my  lady ;  cuts 
it,  an'  shews  it,  an'  shapes  it,  an'  fits  it ;  an'  my  caps  as  well ; 
an'  trims  my  own  bonnet ;  an'  let  me  see  the  girl  that  goes 
more  tidy  to  fair  or  chapel  than  Judy  Flanagan.   ( Courtesying.) 

Mrs.  W.  You  are  always  very  neat,  Judy,  —  very  neat  and 
tidy  for  your  condition ;  but  a  fine  lady  requires  a  great  deal 
more  from  her  maid  than  you  have  had  an  opportunity  of  learn- 
ing. If  you  want  really  to  earn  your  bread,  I  am  willing  to  help 
you  to  do  it ;  but  it  must  be  in  a  rational  way.  You  must  begin 
at  the  beginning ;  and  if  you  are  in  earnest  in  going  to  ser- 
vice, take  service  properly  under  some  better-instructed  person 
than  yourself,  who  will  teach  you  your  business.  I  am  in 
want  of  an  inider-housemaid.      Will  you  take  the  place"? 

Judy.  Tache  me  my  business  !  Under  Nancy  Fox,  I  do 
suppose  1  Is  it  my  father's  daughter  will  go  under  Billy  Fox 
the  ould  cobbler's  orphaut  1     No,  my  lady.     Glory  be  to  God 


CONVERSATION   WITH  AN  IRISH  ACQUAINTANCE.      115 

iu  heaven  !  I  'm  not  so  low  as  that.  TVTiat  can  she  tache  me 
that  I  require  to  know  ] 

Mrs.  W.  To  do  the  work  of  a  gentleman's  house,  of  which 
you  must  be  entirely  ignorant.  Nancy  Fox,  luckily  for  hei', 
had  no  one  to  interfere  with  her  progress.  She  came  to  me 
to  be  under  my  late  housemaid,  Kitty  Flinn,  who  married 
so  comfortably  last  year ;  and  she  has  thus  qualified  herself 
to  be  upper  housemaid  now  in  her  stead,  as  you  may  qualify 
yourself,  in  your  turn,  by  and  by  to  succeed  her. 

Judy.  Is  it  Xancy  1  Thank  you,  my  lady,  an'  I  'm  obliged 
to  you  ;  but  I  'm  not  come  to  that  yet  !  An'  I  wish  you  good 
mornin'  all  the  same,  ma'am,  though  you  've  been  poisoned 
agin  me  by  those  as  I  know  of.  But  I  dar'  thim  all,  fornint 
their  face  or  behint  their  back,  to  say  anything  but  what 's 
truth  o'  me  or  thim  that  owns  me  ! 

Mrs.  W.  You  are  mistaken,  Judy  :  no  one  has  ever  said  a 
word  to  me  against  you. 

Judy.    They  dar'  n't,  my  lady. 

Mrs.  W.  You  have  done  yourself  more  harm  than  any  one 
else  could  have  done  you.  Still,  I  forgive  you  ;  and  I  will  serve 
you  if  I  can,  but  not  now  :  you  must  suffer  a  little  more 
first.  Pride  and  idleness  and  vanity  must  all  be  punished  a 
little  further  before  either  I  can  help  you  or  you  will  profit 
by  my  help.  Go  home,  good  girl,  for  another  month  or  two, 
and  then  come  back  to  me  again. 

Judy.  You  would  n't  have  a  piece  of  an  ould  coat,  my 
lady,  nor  an  ould  apron,  nor  an  hankercher,  that  you  could 
give  me  for  kiverin'  1  I  declare  I  'm  a'most  ashamed  to  face 
the  people  the  way  I  am,  with  scarce  a  tack  upon  me. 

Mrs.  W.  No,  indeed,  Judy  :  I  have  nothing  to  give  that  you 
will  find  useful,  I  fear.  I  can  say  nothing  more  at  present. 
See,  there  are  several  of  our  friends  outside  waiting  to  see 
me. 

Judy.  Well,  I  wish  your  ladyship  good  mornin',  an'  thanks 
for  yer  advice.  An'  surely  God  he  knows  I  did  my  best  any 
way  ! 


116  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 


ARMADO  AND   MOTH. 

ARMADO.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it,  when  a  man  of  spirit 
grows  melancholy  1 

Moth.    A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad. 

Arm.  Why,  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-same  thing,  dear 
child. 

Moth.    No,  no,  sir;  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melancholy,  my 
tender  juvenal  1 

Moth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working,  my 
tough  senior. 

Arm.    Why  tough  senior  1     Why  tough  senior  1 

Moth.    Why  tender  juvenal  1     Why  tender  juvenal  1 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  congruent  epithet 
appertaining  to  thy  youug  days,  which  we  may  nominate 
tender. 

Moth.  And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent  title  to  your 
old  time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 

Arm.    Pretty,  and  apt. 

Moth.  How  mean  you,  sir,  —  I  pretty,  and  my  saying 
apt ;  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  1 

Arm.    Thou  pretty,  because  little. 

Moth.    Little  pretty,  because  little.     Wherefore  apt  1 

Arm.    And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.    Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  1 

A.RM.    In  thy  most  deserved  praise. 

Moth.    I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 

Arm.    What !    that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 

Moth.    That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say  thou  art  quick  in  answers.  Thou  heat'st 
«ny  blood. 

Moth.    I  am  answered,  sir. 


CINDERELLA  ;   OR,   THE   GLASS   SLIPPER.  117 


CINDERELLA;    OR,    THE    GLASS    SLIPPER. 

The  Prince  ;  Adam  ;  Trumpeter  and  Dancers ;  Lucretia  Tinkle- 
ton  ;  Arabella  Tinkleton  ;  Cinderella;  Fairy  Godmother; 
Ddchess  OF  Rattletrap;  Usher. 

ACT   I. 

Scene  I.  —  J.  dressing-room.     Lucretia;    Arabella;   Cinderella. 

LUCRETIA.     Well !    I  wonder  how  much  longer  we  shall 
have  to  wait  for  that  child  ]     Here  we  have  been  sit- 
ting ever  since  the  hairdresser  left. 

Arabella.  I  dare  say  she  is  only  staring  at  herself  in  the 
glass.  Do  you  know,  Lucretia,  I  believe  she  thinks  herself 
pretty,  the  little  ape  ! 

Luc.  (with  stamp  of  the  foot.)    I  'm  tired  of  waiting.     Just  ring 
the  bell,  Arabella.     We  shall  be  late  for  the  ball ! 
Enter  Cinderella  with  dresses  on  her  arm. 

CiN.  0,  I  am  so  sorry,  sisters,  I  've  been  so  long !  I 
hope  you  have  n't  been  waiting  for  me. 

Aba.  Waiting  !  Why,  what  did  you  expect  us  to  be  doing  1 
Dressing  ourselves,  I  suppose,  while  you  were  admiring  your- 
self in  the  glass. 

CiN.  You  forget,  I  think,  how  long  it  takes  to  iron  such 
dresses  as  these.  Besides,  I  had  to  clear  away  dinnei*,  and  to 
make  up  the  fire,  to  get  you  some  tea  before  you  go  out. 

Luc.  0  yes  !  you  are  so  good,  are  you  not  1  We  '11  have 
you  sainted  in  the  next  holy  calendar.  Come,  get  my  shoes, 
and  take  my  boots  away ;  and  mind  they  are  cleaned  before 
you  go  to  bed  to-night ! 

Ara.  Come,  child,  how  slow  you  are  !  I  want  my  dress 
fastened,  —  this  minute.  (Lucretia  pushes  Cinderella  down. 
Site  begins  to  cry.) 

Luc.  Yes,  that 's  right !  You  are  very  much  hurt,  are  n't 
you] 

Ara.  What  a  baby  you  are  !  You  '11  make  your  eyes  red  ; 
and  you  've  no  beauty  to  lose,  I  can  tell  you. 

Luc.    I  wonder  whether  3'ou  know  what  a  fright  you  are. 


118  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

CiN.  I  am  sure  it  would  not  matter  to  any  one  if  my  eyes 
were  ever  so  red. 

Luc.  The  fact  is,  you  have  n't  work  enough.  Arabella,  we 
had  better  give  her  something  to  do  while  we  are  out.  Mend 
those  six  pairs  of  black  stockings  before  to-morrow.  If  not 
done,  remember,  no  breakfast  for  you.  ( They  dress  as  fast  as 
possible.)  [Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Ababella. 

Scene  II.  —  Cinderella,  throwing  herself  down  on  the  rug,  begins  to  cry. 

Cinderella.  0  dear !  0  dear  !  What  shall  I  do  !  what 
shall  I  do  !  What  would  my  dear  father  say,  if  he  could  see 
how  they  treat  his  darling  1  I  wonder  if  I  have  grown  so  very 
ugly  since  he  went  away.  (Cinderella  ^oes  to  the  glass,  and  looks 
at  herself.)  I  dare  say  if  I  were  to  be  dressed  out  like  my  sis- 
ters, I  should  not  look  so  very  bad  ;  but  ah  !  I  must  not  think 
about   it    (sighs).      I   must  do  my  work.       (She  sweeps  the  hearth.) 

How  shall  I  do  it  all  %  There  are  those  stockings  to  mend, 
the  grates  to  clean,  the  cinders  to  sift,  —  else  how  they  '11 
scold  me  !  And  there 's  my  own  frock  to  mend,  that  I  bvu'nt  a 
hole  in  this  afternoon.  How  frightened  I  was  for  fear  they 
should  see  it !  (She  looks  at  her  dress.)  0  dear  !  how  big  it  is  ! 
how  can  I  mend  it "?     0  dear  !  0  dear  !     (Bursts  out  crying.) 

Enter  Fairy. 

Fairy.  Cinderella  !  Cinderella  !  Cinderella  !  (Cinderella 
looks  up.) 

CiN.    Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !     "Wh  —  who  —  are  you  1 

Fairy.    Don't  you.  know  me,  Cinderella  ] 

CiN.    No,  no  !  I  do  not. 

Fairy.  But  I  know  you,  though  I  haven't  spoken  to  you 
since  you  were  a  baby.  I  am  your  godmother.  I  have 
watched  you  and  loved  you ;  and  I  have  been  pleased  with 
you,  especially  since  your  poor  father's  death.  You  are  not 
happy,  are  you,  my  dear  ] 

CiN.    Not  very. 

Fairy.  Well,  cheer  up,  my  love.  There  are  brighter  days 
in  store  for  you.  Do  what  I  tell  you,  and  all  will  yet  be 
weU. 


CINDERELLA  ;   OR,   THE   GLASS   SLIPPER.  119 

CiN.    I  will,  I  will !     But  what  can  you  do  for  me  1 

Fairy.  Trust  me,  and  obey  me  ;  I  have  seen  you  can  obey. 
Mind  all  my  directions. 

CiN.    Yes,  yes  !     What  shall  I  do  1 

Fairy.    Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  ball  to-night  1 

CiN.  0  yes,  so  much ;  but  how  could  I  go  1  I  have  no 
dress  to  wear.  Fancy  me  going  into  that  grand  room 
(holding  up  her  burnt  frock)   with   such  a  dress  as  this  ! 

Fairy.  Gently,  gently,  little  maiden  !  Did  your  father 
never  give  you  any  beautiful  frocks  ] 

CiN.  Ah  !  yes  ;  but  think  how  young  I  was  then,  only 
about  six  years  old,  and  now  I  'm  seventeen  ;  and  1  have  had 
no  one  to  give  me  any  pretty  clothes  since  then. 

Fairy.    Let  me  see  them. 

CiN.  0,  but  they  are  of  no  use  but  to  look  at,  to  remind 
me  how  my  father  loved  me  and  petted  me. 

Fairy.    Cinderella  !     Remember  !    Obey  !    Fetch  me  them. 

Cm.  They  are  all  in  that  box,  —  but  my  sisters  have  got 
the  key. 

Fairy.  Do  you  suppose  that  makes  any  difference  to  me  ? 
Look  !      (Fairy  makes  signs  with  her  wand.) 

CiN.  There  they  are  !  See  how  tiny ;  and  are  they  not 
dainty  1  0  my  dear,  dear  father,  how  kind  you  were  to 
me  !      {Holding  up  a  dress.) 

Fairy.    Now  put  them  back,  and  shut  the  box.    Look  at  me. 

Si  hum,  si  sing, 
Yoyum.yi  ying; 
Rapa,  rapa  ree, 
Open  up  and  see. 

Cinderella  opens  the  box.    She  stoops,  and  draws  a  ball-dress  out  of  the  box, 

CiN.    0  fairy,  is  tliat  for  me  1     I  thank  — 

Fairy.  No  thanks,  my  dear ;  not  a  word.  Now  dress,  and 
go  to  the  ball.  It  is  at  the  house  of  the  Duchess  of  Rattle- 
trap, and  you  will  see  the  Princess  and  the  Prince  there. 

CiN.  But,  fairy,  how  shall  I  get  there  1  I  have  no  carriage 
to  go  in,  and  no  servants  to  take  me,  even  if  I  could  walk 
there  in  this  bright  dress. 


120  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Fairy.  Foolish  child  !  do  you  suppose  I  am  not  able  to 
provide  you  with  a  carriage  and  men-servants  to  protect  you  ] 
Listen  and  obey  ! 

Out  of  the  garden  a  pumpkin  bring  ; 

Out  of  the  larder  four  mice  ; 
Two  bees  from  the  hive,  take  care  they  don't  sting. 

Chaise,  horses,  and  men  you  shall  have  in  a  trice. 

When  you  are  ready  dressed,  you  will  find  this  equipage 
waiting  for  you  at  your  door.  At  the  house  of  the  Duchess 
I  shall  be  ready  to  introduce  you  to  her  Grace.  There  is 
one  more  point  to  obey  me  in  :  mind  you  are  home  again  by 
twelve  o'clock.  This  must  be  !  and  if  you  neglect  it  you  will 
find  the  miserable  consequences  of  your  disobedience.  All 
yoiu"  fine  clothes  will  vanish  ;  and  the  poor,  grimy  Cinderella 
will  be  standing  in  that  gay  crowd.  As  the  clock  strikes 
twelve.     Remember!  [Curtain  drops. 

ACT  IL 

Scene  I.  —  TVie  ball-room  at  the  Duchess  of  Rattletrap's.  Enter 
Fairy  Godmother  with  Cinderella  on  her  artn.  Fairy  advances,  and 
introduces  Cinderella  to  the  Duchess  of  Eattletrap.  JiJusic  and 
dancing  cease  ;  every  one  turns  and  loolcs  at  Cinderella.  After  a  pause, 
the  music  and  dancing  proceed.  The  Prince  leaves  his  forme)-  partner, 
Lucretia,  and  advances  to  meet  Cinderella.  A  new  dance  commences 
in  which  Lucretia  and  Arabella  obtain  no  partners.  After  the  dance 
the  Prince  promenades  with  Cinderella. 

Prince.  May  I  have  the  felicity  of  engaging  you  for  the 
next  waltz  1  Unfortunately  I  must  go  through  the  next  dance 
with  that  ancient  damsel  in  green.     (Looking  towards  Arabella.) 

CiN.    Whom  do  you  mean  % 

Prin.  That  withered-looking  wallflower  there.  But  one 
must  be  polite  as  well  as  enjoy  one's  self  at  a  ball,  you  know. 
It  is  a  great  bore,  is  it  not  ]  But  if  you  will  waltz  with  me 
afterwards,  the  thought  of  that  will  sustain  me  in  my  dull 
work. 

Cix.  0,  I  should  like  it  so  much ;  but  it  is  so  long  since  I 
waltzed,  —  suppose  I  can't  do  it  1 

Prin.    Never  mind  :  I  '11  soon  teach  you.     You  are  so  light 


CINDERELLA  ;    OR,    THE    GLASS   SLIPPER.  121 

I  could  caiTj  you  about,  and  no  one  would  know  we  were  not 
flying.     0,  how  happy  I  shall  be  !    ( They  waltz. ) 

CiN.  0,  do  let  us  sit  down  now  !  I  am  sure  Ave  are  being 
looked  at. 

Prix.  Who  could  help  looking  at  you  1  (Presses  her  hand  and 
leads  her  to  a  seat,  the  Prince  stooping  towards  her. )  May  I  take 
you  down  to  supper  1     Promise  me  that  I  shall. 

CiN.    What  o'clock  will  that  be  1 

Prin.  How  should  I  know  anything  of  the  flight  of  time, 
with  you  so  near  me  1 

Cix.  If  you  cannot  really  tell  me,  I  had  better  leave  at 
once ;  for  I  must  be  home  at  twelve  o'clock. 

Prin.    Indeed  you  must  not.     I  will  prevent  that. 

Cix.  0,  you  don't  know  what  you  're  saying.  You  must 
let  me  go,  or  I  shall  never  see  you  again. 

Prin.  Tell  me  why,  then  1  Where  is  your  home  1  Who 
are  you  going  with  1     May  I  ask  what  is  your  name  1 

CiN.  I  cannot  tell  you  anything.  If  you  are  kind,  you 
will  not  ask  me.  If  you  will  let  me  go  now,  I  shall  see  you 
again,  perhaps,  to-morrow,  at  the  palace,  if  you  will  let  me 
come.     So  now,  good  night. 

Prin.  I  shall  see  you  to  your  carriage.  Shall  I  fetch  the 
old  lady  you  came  with  ]     Is  she  your  mother  1 

CiN.  No ;  alas  !  I  have  no  mother  ;  but  she  is  my  god- 
mother, and  is  very  good  to  me.  But  she  is  gone,  I  know  :  so 
let  me  go  alone. 

Prin.    I  must  and  will  conduct  you  to  your  carriage. 

CiN.  {looking  at  the  timepiece.)  Be  quick,  then,  be  quick!  0, 
pardon  me  for  being  so  hasty  ;  but  —  if  you  knew  all !  (She 
goes  out ;  he  follows  her  ;  the  clock  .'itrikes  twelve.)  [The  curtain  drops. 

Scene  II.  —  The  Sisters'  sitting-room. 
CiN.  (sitting  alone.)  Here  I  am  again,  —  the  poor  Cinderella  ! 
Is  it  all  a  dream  1  But  what  a  dream  !  Ah,  well !  I  will  work  all 
the  better  for  my  bit  of  play.  Now  for  the  cinders  to  sift.  ( Goes 
to  the  fire-place.)  0,  they  are  all  done  !  and  how  clean  the  grate 
is!  Well,  but  there  's  those  stockings.  (Gets  herhaskef,  snuffs  the 
candle,  and  takes  a  stocking  in  her  hand;  lets  it  lie  on  her  lap ;  muses.) 
6 


122  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

0,  is  not  the  Prince  handsome  1  and  how  very  kind  he  was 
to  such  a  poor  girl  as  I  am ;  but  then  he  did  not  know  who 
I  was,  and  I  dare  say  he  thought  I  was  somebody.  Heigh-ho  ! 
I  must  not  think  of  him.  {Looking  at  the  stockings.)  0,  they  are 
all  mended  !  Now  then,  for  the  boots.  (Finds  them  cleaned.) 
0  you  dear,  dear  godmother  !  this  must  be  you. 

Enter  the  Sisters. 

Luc.    Well,  Cinderella,  have  you  done  your  work  1 

Ara.  Come,  Lucretia,  don't  begin  about  her  work  directly ,^ 
—  I  'm  sick  of  it  !  If  she  has  not  done  it,  why,  you  know 
she  '11  have  no  breakfast,  that 's  all !  Now  tell  her  about  the 
delightful  party  we  have  had. 

Luc.  Well,  we  both  danced  with  the  Prince ;  and  he  was  so 
polite  and  really  quite  affectionate  to  us  both,  —  was  he  not, 
Loo  1  —  I  quite  expect  we  shall  have  him  calling  here  soon. 

CiN.  Did  he  dance  with  you  often  1  Is  he  handsome  1  Do 
tell  me  about  him. 

Luc.  And  what  do  you  want  to  hear  for?  I  suppose  you 
think  we  shall  let  you  go  some  day.  0  Arabella  !  what  a  guy 
she  would  look  in  a  ball-room  ! 

Ara.  Fancy  Cinderella  in  the  same  room  with  that  lovely 
creature  we  saw  to-night  ! 

Luc.  Do  you  know  I  believe  she  was  a  princess,  or  the 
Prince  would  never  have  talked  so  very  much  to  her. 

Ara.    Did  he  speak  to  her  1 

Luc.  Yes ;  and  her  voice  and  manners  were  stiU  more 
charming  than  her  face. 

Ara.  She  talked  a  great  deal  more  to  me  than  she  did  to 
you ;  and  hadn't  she  a  fascinating  dress  1  I  think  I  shall  have 
one  like  it  next  year. 

Luc.  You,  indeed !  it  would  suit  my  complexion  much 
better  than  yours.     Did  you  hear  her  name,  Arabella  1 

Ara.  No,  I  don't  think  any  one  did.  I  heard  the  Prince 
asking  her  ;  and  she  would  not  tell  him  even. 

CiN.  {looking  mysterious.)       I  think  I  could  guess  who  it  was. 

Both  {together.)  You  indeed,  you  little  monkey !  Go  off 
to  bed  !  [Exit  Cinderella. 


CINDERELLA  ;    OR,    THE   GLASS   SLIPPER.  123 

Luc.  That's  what  comes  of  talking  to  her,  the  stuck-up 
little  puss,  putting  in  her  word  ! 

Ara.  Well,  we  'd  better  go  to  bed  now,  or  we  shall  not  be 
fit  to  be  seen  to-morrow  night.  I  declare  I  'm  so  excited  ! 
Sha  'n't  jou  di-eana  of  the  Prince  and  that  lovely  little  beauty  1 

[Curtain  drops. 

ACT  m. 

Scene  I.  —  TTie  ball-room.    Music.     Company  promenading,  Prince  with 

Cinderella. 

Prince.  You  will  not  forget  that  you  promised  to  sit  by  me 
at  supper  ? 

CiN.    On  one  condition,  you  know. 

Prin.  Yes ;  but  why  that  condition  ?  However,  I  kept  my 
word  last  night,  and  you  must  have  been  home  quite  in  time 
to  please  any  old  godmother.  I  suppose  you  have  to  tuck 
her  up  in  bed  and  give  her  her  gruel.  She  might  get  some 
one  else  to  put  on  her  nightcap,  the  dear  old  soul !  just  for 
once. 

CiN.  But  you  are  quite  mistaken  about  her.  She  does  not 
live  with  me.     I  wish  she  did. 

Prin.  "NMiom  do  you  live  with  1  Tell  me  now,  my  dove, 
before  you  fly  from  me  again.  Where  can  I  find  the  dove- 
cote ]  Does  no  one  cherish  you  1  Does  no  one  care  for  your 
sweet  life  1 

CiN.    Alas  !  no  one  takes  care  of  me. 

Prin.    But  you  do  not  live  all  alone  1 

CiN.    No,  not  alone  ;  but  no  one  loves  me. 

Prin.  You  are  wrong  there,  for  I  do,  and  I  shall  never  love 
another.  Tell  me  where  I  can  find  you.  I  will  come  and 
cherish  you  ;  and  you  shall  live  on  such  love  as  none  ever 
knew  before ! 

CiN.  0,  don't  put  such  visions  before  me,  to  make  my 
life  the  darker  when  the  dream  vanishes  !  You  don't  know 
who  I  am,  and  I  cannot  tell  you.  (Cinderella  hears  the  clock  begin 
to  strike,  and  rushes  away.  Loses  her  shoe,  which  the  Prince  picks  up  ;  and, 
ajler  gazing  at  it,  he  kisses  it,  and  puts  it  into  his  pocket.)         \Curtain  drops. 


124  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Scene  II.  —  A  dark  night.     The  Prince,  looking  out  into  the  night,  gazes 

about. 

Prince.  Where  can  she  be  gone  1  It  is  only  an  instant 
since  she  left  the  palace.  Her  carriage  cannot  have  driven 
away  yet.  Where  is  she  ?  Perhaps  it  did  not  come  for  her, 
and  she  has  gone  on  foot ;  but  no !  I  should  see  her  then. 
{Turns  to  his  servant.)  Adam,  did  you  see  a  lady  passing  the  door  ] 

Adam.    Please  your  Royal  Highness,  no. 

Prin.  But  I  believe  you  did.  I  think  I  heard  you  speak 
to  some  one  this  minute. 

Adam.  May  it  please  your  Highness,  I  was  only  telling  that 
girl  there  not  to  be  loitering  about. 

Prin.    Which  girl  ] 

Adam.  That  there  grubby  girl  down  there.  (Pointing  to  Cin- 
derella a-ouching  in  a  corner.) 

Prin.  {going  up  to  her.)  Why,  girl,  what  are  you  doing 
there  1  Are  you  asleep  1  What,  no  bonnet  and  no  shawl  on  ! 
How  cold  you  must  be  ! 

CiN.  Please,  sir,  I  'm  in  trouble.  I  've  lost  my  way,  and 
was  just  going  to  ask  your  servant  to  tell  me  whereabouts  I 
am. 

Adam.  Whereabouts  you  are,  you  hussy  !  Why,  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do,  you  have  just  come  out  through  this  door. 
{Turning  to  the  Prince.)  But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  tell  wliat 
room  she  came  from. 

Prin.  Come,  get  up,  and  tell  me  where  you  want  to  go, 
and  how  it  is  you  have  lost  your  way.      Where  's  your  home  1 

CiN.  Please,  sir,  I  'm  servant  to  some  ladies  who  are  at  the 
ball  to-night,  and  I  've  come  out  without  their  knowing  it. 
0,  please  don't  tell  them  !  I  came  because  I  wanted  to  see 
some  of  the  company  ;  and  it  was  so  nice  looking  at  the 
beautiful  people  that  I  forgot  myself,  and  have  stayed  too 
late.      {She  cries. ) 

Prin.  {aside.)  How  much  her  voice  sounds  like  hers/ 
How  can  it  be'?  But  what  a  fool  I  am  !  It  is  only  that  I  am 
so  filled  with  thoughts  of  her  :  that  voice  rings  in  my  ears 
like  the  music  of  a  silver  bell.    ( To  Cinderella.)    Well,  girl,  get 


CIXDERELLA  ;   OR,   THE   GLASS   SLIPPER.  125 

up.  '\Miere  is  it  you  want  to  go  1  Tell  me,  and  don't  look  so 
frightened  :  you  shall  get  home  before  your  mistresses.  And 
remember,  don't  be  so  silly  another  time,  or  you  may  get 
turned  away  ;  but  this  time  I  '11  say  nothing  about  it.  "Who 
are  yom*  ladies  ] 

Cix.  They  are  the  Hon.  Miss  Tinkletons,  of  Tinkleton 
Hall.  0,  please,  sir,  I  don't  know  how  I  'm  to  get  home 
before  them.  How  could  I  be  so  silly  as  to  come !  (m  dis- 
tress. ) 

Prix.  Adam,  send  my  aunt's  coachman  here, —  the  Duchess 
of  Rattletrap's,  you  know.  (Aside.)  They  won't  be  going  yet 
for  an  hour,  I  dare  say.  Poor  girl !  I  am  sure  she  must  be  good 
as  well  as  in  trouble,  with  such  a  voice  as  that.  I  feel  sorry 
for  her.  (To  Cinderella.)  Here,  my  poor  girl,  take  my  cloak, 
and  don't  tell  the  man  who  you  are.  Jump  into  the  carnage, 
and  you  '11  be  at  Tinkleton  Hall  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

CiN.    Bless  you,  sir,  and  a  thousand  thanks  to  you. 

[Curtain  drops. 

Scene  III. — Breakfast-table.     Lucretia  ancf  Arabella. 

Luc.    How  late  you  are,  Arabella  ! 

Ara.  I  don't  believe  you  have  been  much  longer  down  than 
1  have  :  so  you  need  not  make  such  a  fuss. 

Luc.    But  where  is  Cinderella  1 

Ara.  0,  do  leave  the  child  alone,  and  let  us  have  our 
breakfast  in  peace.  She  has  got  it  all  ready ;  and  we  don't 
want  her  here,  I  am  sure. 

Luc.  She 's  getting  quite  saucy.  She  asked  me  last  night, 
when  she  was  undressing  me,  whether  that  little  lady  was 
there  again  that  we  liked  so  much  (smeringly). 

Ara.  What  had  she  to  do  with  it,  I  should  like  to  know  1 
We  must  keep  her  down,  Lucretia.  I  think  we  have  been 
making  too  much  of  a  friend  of  her  lately. 

Luc.  Was  n't  it  odd  that  the  Prince  never  came  into  the 
supper-room  at  all  last  night  1     I  wonder  where  he  was. 

Ara.  Lord  Lovel  told  me  he  went  wandering  about  the 
corridors,  looking  at  a  little  shoe  he  held  in  his  hand,  and 
watching  the  ladies'  feet  as  they  went  out. 


126  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 

Luc.  0  yes  !  did  n't  you  hear  1  The  beautiful  little  lady 
lost  one  of  her  slippei's  as  she  went  harrying  out;  and  he  is 
trying  everywhere  to  find  out  the  owner  of  it. 

Ara.  I  can't  help  thinking  there 's  some  enchantment  about 
her. 

Luc.  Enchantment.  Fiddlesticks  !  She 's  nothing  but  a 
very  pretty  little  gii'l,  that 's  kept  very  close  at  home  by  that 
queer  little  old  grandmother  of  hers. 

Ara.  Listen,  Loo  !  What 's  that  noise  1  {Sounds  of  a  trumpet. 
Trumpeter's  voice  heard.     Arabella  throws  up  the  window.) 

PROCLAMATION. 

O,  yes  !  0,  yes  !  This  is  to  give  notice,  by  order  of  his 
Royal  Highness,  that  his  Royal  Highness  intends  visiting  at 
every  house  in  his  kingdom  where  dwells  a  maiden,  be  she 
high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  for  the  purj)0se  of  discovering  the 
owner  of  a  shoe  left  last  night  in  the  palace.  Prepare,  all 
maidens,  prepare  for  his  reception  !  Whoever  can  wear  the 
shoe  his  Royal  Highness  will  wed  ! 

Ara.    0  Lucretia  ! 

Luc.  0  Arabella  !  I  wonder  whether  he  '11  come  here  !  I 
know  my  foot  will  wear  any  shoe.  I  shall  make  believe  I  lost 
mine. 

Ara.  I'm  sure  it's  only  done  to  find  out  about  that 
pretty  girl ;  and  I  know  she  was  only  a  ghost  or  a  sprite.  I 
believe  I  am  nearer  her  size  than  any  one  in  that  room  last 
night ;  so  won't  I  put  it  on  !  and  then  you  '11  have  to  do  court 
to  me  as  Princess,  Madam  Lucretia. 

Enter  Cinderella  with  a  tray. 

Luc.  Dear  me,  how  prim  and  neat  you  look,  to  be  sure  ! 
What  have  you  been  getting  yourself  up  in  such  a  very  nun- 
like style  fori 

Ara.  Perhaps  she  expects  the  Pi-ince  to  try  the  shoe  on  her 
foot! 

Luc.  (with  a  laugh.)  Ah,  I  should  n't  wonder  !  That's  a  good 
idea,  is  n  't  it,  Cinderella  ]     You  'd  like  that. 

CiN.    If  he  should  say  he  wishes  it,  of  course  I  must,  sis- 


CIM)ERELLA  ;   OR,    THE   GLASS   SLIPPER.  127 

ters ;  and  you  know  that  the  proclamation  says  all  maidens 
ai'e  to  prepare,  high  or  low. 

Luc.  Well,  Arabella,  this  is  too  absurd.  You  conceited 
little  puss,  do  hold  your  tongue. 

Ara.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  getting  imbearable  1  Mind 
you  keep  in  your  own  place,  amongst  the  ashes,  miss,  when 
the  Prince  does  come. 

Luc.  Yes,  you  'd  better  take  care  he  does  not  see  you. 
You  shall  be  punished  if  you  show  your  little,  silly,  simpering 
face  while  he  is  here.     The  gardener  will  open  the  door. 

CiN.  0  sisters,  do  let  me  see  him  !  I  have  heard  he  's  so 
handsome  ;  and  I  'm  sure  I  should  not  trouble  him.  (A  loud 
knock  heard ;  Luceetia  and  Arabella  push  Cinderella  out.) 

£n<er  Prince  with  flourish  of  trumpets.     Ladies  make  court-courtesies. 

Prix.  Good  morning,  ladies.  How  blooming  you  both  look 
to-day ! 

Luc,    Good  morning  to  your  Highness. 

Ara.    Good  morning  (with  a  courtesy). 

Prix.  This  sweet  morning  is  quite  exhilarating.  One  can 
but  feel  happy  on  such  a  day. 

Ara.  Our  happiness  is  enhanced  by  the  light  of  your 
presence. 

Prix.  But  I,  alas !  have  a  gi'eat  anxiety  at  my  heart.  I 
have  lost  a  treasure,  ladies,  —  the  greatest  treasure  I  ever 
possessed.  I  had  no  sooner  found  it  than  it  vanished.  If  I 
do  not  recover  my  treasure,  my  happiness  is  gone  for  life. 

Luc.    How  sad,  how  mournful  you  look  ! 

Ara.    Can  we  do  nothing  to  repair  your  loss  1 

Prix.  I  fear  not.  It  is  to  be  repaired  only  with  the  treas- 
ure itself     No  substitute  would  avail. 

Luc.    Tell  us,  —  what  is  it  you  have  lost  1 

Prix.    It  is  my  love,  —  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved. 

Both.    Your  love  !     A  lady,  do  you  mean  1 

Prix.  Yes,  a  lady.  She  was  very  fair.  Will  you  help  me 
to  find  hcrl 

Luc.    We  will  do  our  very  best. 

Ara.    I  dare  say  she  's  not  so  very  far  oflf. 


128  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Prin.  I  have  only  one  clew  to  finding  her.  This  shoe 
(holding  it  up)  she  dropped  as  she  left  the  palace.  I  know  it  will 
fit  no  other  foot ;  therefore  I  am  travelling  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  my  kingdom  to  find  her  who  can  wear  it.  She 
will  be  my  Princess,  for  she  loves  me,  I  know,  and  I  love  her 
more  than  tongue  can  tell.  (Looking  up,  and  turning  to  Luc.)  Lady, 
will  you  permit  my  gentleman-in-waiting  to  try  the  shoe 
upon  your  foot  ] 

Luc.  Your  Royal  Highness  has  but  to  command.  My  foot 
has  always  been  considered  very  small ;  but  I  am  scarcely 
worthy  the  honor  consequent  upon  wearing  that  shoe. 

Prin.  Madam,  let  us  wait  the  event.  (Enter  the  Usher  bowing. 
LuCRETiA  seats  herself.     The  shoe  ivill  not  Jit.) 

Luc.  There  must  be  some  mistake.  Allow  me  to  try  my- 
self. 

Prin.  Pardon  me,  madam  :  it  cannot  leave  the  hand  of  the 
usher.  (Tm-HiVi^r  to  Arabella.)  Will  you  favor  me  by  taking 
your  sister's  chair  1 

Ara.  I  flatter  myself  that  my  foot  is  some  inches  smaller 
than  that  of  my  poor  sister.  (Loohing  tenderly  at  the  Vni^c^.)  I 
knew  you  understood  which  it  was  !  (TheVsnERtriestoput  it  on; 
but  it  will  not  Jit.)  Your  Highness  is  too  just  and  too  kind  to 
submit  to  any  trickery. 

Prin.  That  is  just  why  I  came  here  myself,  that  no  fair 
lady,  be  she  ever  so  beautiful,  might  impose  either  upon  her- 
self or  upon  me.  Ladies,  good  morning  (bowing  as  if  to  depart). 
But  before  I  go  I  must  perfect  my  vow.  I  have  sworn  to 
try  this  shoe  on  every  maiden,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  in 
my  kingdom.     You  have  a  young  girl  in  this  house. 

Luc.    No,  I  assure  you. 

Ara.  No  one  lives  here  but  ourselves  and  the  gardener, 
except,  indeed,  a  faithful  old  cook. 

Prin.  (interrupting.)  Excuse  me.  I  have  seen  your  maid, 
and  have  spoken  some  words  to  her.  I  could  not  forget  her 
voice,  though  I  scarcely  saw  her  features.  I  am  sure  she  is 
not  old.  Call  her,  and  she  will  tell  you  whether  or  not  she 
has  seen  me  before.     I  did  her  a  kindness  she  will  not  have 


SCENE   FROM   "  VIRGDJIUS."  129 

forgotten.     {Turning to  his  IJsher.)      Call  the  little  maid-of-all- 

work,  —  as  I  suspect  she  is.  [Exit  Usher. 

Luc.  and  Aba.    Indeed,  you  are  mistaken,  indeed,  indeed  ! 

Enter  the  Ushek,  accompanied  by  Falrt  and  Cinderella.     The  Prince 
gets  excited;  one  glance  at  each  other,  and  both  are  calm. 

Prin.    My  child,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Fairy.  They  call  her  Cinderella.  Shame  to  say,  she  is 
their  sister.  She  has  been  like  an  angel  to  them,  patient, 
true,  and  loving  ;  but  they  have  treated  her  with  — 

Cix.  {stopping  the  Fairy.)  0  don't,  dear  Fairy  !  don't  be 
unkind  to  them  ! 

Prin.  {advancing.)  Excuse  my  interruption;  my  impatience 
will  admit  of  no  delay.  (Taking  the  shoe  from  the  hand  of  his  Vsueh.) 
Cinderella,  will  you  sit  there,  and  let  me  see  if  your  foot  ever 
wore  this  shoe  1 

CiN.    I  —  I —     May  I,  sisters  "?      ( Turning  to  them.) 

Prix.  Cinderella,  don't  you  know  that  I  am  the  Prince  1 
and  princes  are  wont  to  be  obeyed  without  hesitation.  (Cin- 
derella s?<s  down  ;  the  Prince,  kneeling,  places  her  foot  on  his  knee,  and  in- 
stantly the  shoe  goes  on.  Cinderella  draivs  the  othei-  glass  slipper  from  her 
pocket;  he  gazes  for  a  moment  into  her  eyes,  and  then  clasps  her  hands.) 
My  bride  !  my  princess  !  {Curtain  drops. 


SCENE  FROM  "VIRGINIUS." 
ViRGiNius;  Lucius. 

LUCIUS  {without).    What  ho  !  Virginius  !  Virginius ! 
ViRGiNius.    Here  !  here ! 

Enter  Lucius. 
Luc.    'T  is  well  you  're  found,  Virginius  ! 
ViR,    What  makes  you  from  the  city  1 
Luc.    You  are  wanted 
In  Rome. 

ViR.    On  what  account  1 
Luc.    On  your  arrival 
You'll  learn. 

6* 


130  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

ViR.    How  !  is  it  something  can't  be  told 
At  once  1     Speak  out,  boy  !     Ha  !  your  looks  are  loaded 
With  matter.     Is  't  so  heavy  that  your  tongue 
Cannot  unburden  them  ?     Your  brother  left 
The  camp  on  duty  yesterday  :  hath  aught 
Happened  to  him  1     Did  he  arrive  in  safety  ? 
Is  he  safe  ]     Is  he  well  1 

Luc.    He  is  both  safe  and  well. 

Vm.    What   then"?     W^hat   then]     Tell  me  the   matter, 
Lucius. 

Luc.    I  have  said 
It  shall  be  told  you. 

Vie.    Shall !  I  stay  not  for 
That  "shall,"  unless  it  be  so  close  at  hand 
It  stop  me  not  a  moment.     'T  is  too  long 
A  coming.     Fare  you  well,  my  Lucius. 

Luc.    Stay, 
Virginius ;  hear  me  with  patience  ! 

Vm.    Well, 
I  am  patient. 

Luc.    Your  Virginia  — 

Vie.    Stop,  my  Lucius  ! 
I  'm  cold  in  every  member  of  my  frame  ! 
If  'c  is  prophetic,  Lucius,  of  thy  news. 
Give  me  such  token  as  her  tomb  would,  Lucius,  — 
I  '11  bear  it  better,  —  silence. 

Luc.    You  are  still  — 

Vie.    I  thank  thee,  Jupiter !     I  am  still  a  father ! 

Luc.    You  are,  Virginius.     Yet  — 

Vie.    What !   is  she  sick  1 

Luc.    No. 

Vie.    Neither  sick  nor  dead  !     All  well !     No  harm  ! 
Nothing  amiss  !     Each  guarded  quarter  safe. 
That  Fear  may  lay  him  down  and  sleep,  and  yet 
This  sounding  the  alarm  1     Thou  tell'st 
A  story  strangely.     Speak  out  I  I  have  patience 
For  anything,  since  my  Virginia  lives, 
And  lives  in  health  I 


SCENE   FROM    "  VIRGINIUS."  131 

Luc.    You  are  required  in  Rome 
To  answer  a  most  novel  suit. 

ViR.    Whose  SLiif? 

Luc.    The  suit  of  Claudius. 

ViR.    Claudius ! 

Luc.    Him  that 's  client 
To  Appius  Claudius,  the  decemvir. 

ViR.    What  !     Ha !     Virginia  !     You  appear 
To  couple  them.     What  makes  my  fair  Virginia 
In  company  with  Claudius  ]     His  suit !     What  suit  1 
Answer  me  quickly  !  quickly  !  lest  suspense, 
Beyond  what  patience  can  endure,  coercing, 
Drive  reason  fi'om  her  seat ! 

Luc.    He  has  claimed  Virginia. 

ViR.    Claimed  her  !     Claimed  her ! 
On  what  pretence  1 

Luc.    He  says  she  is  the  child 
Of  a  slave  of  his,  who  sold  her  to  thy  wife. 

ViR.    Go  on,  —  you  see  I  am  calm. 

Luc.    He  seized  her  in  the  school, 
And  dragged  her  to  the  forum,  where 
Appius  was  giving  judgment. 

ViR.    Dragged  her  to  the  forum  !     Well, 
I  told  you,  Lucius,  I  would  be  patient. 

Luc.    Numitorius  there  confronted  him. 

YiR.    Did  he  not  strike  him  dead  1 
True,  true,  I  know  it  was  in  the  presence  of 
The  decemvir.     0,  had  I  confronted  him  ! 
Well !  well  !  the  issue  ]     Well,  o'erleap  all  else, 
And  light  upon  the  issue.     Where  is  she  ] 

Luc.    I  was  despatched  to  fetch  thee  ere  I  could  learn. 

ViR.    The  claim  of  Claudius  —  Appius's  client  —  Hal 
I  see  the  master-cloud  —  this  ragged  one, 
That  lowers  before,  moves  only  in  subservience 
To  the  ascendant  of  the  other.     Jove 
With  its  own  mischief  break  it  and  disperse  it. 
And  tliat  be  all  the  ruin  !     Patience  I     Prudence  1 


132  PUBLIC  AND   PAKLOB   DIALOGUES. 

Kay,  prudence,  hnt  no  patience.     Come  !  a  slave 
Dragged  through  the  streets  in  open  day  !     My  child ! 
My  daughter  !  my  fair  daughter,  in  the  eyes 
Of  Rome  !     0,  I  '11  be  patient !     Come  !  the  essence 
Of  my  best  blood,  in  the  free  common  ear 
Condemned  as  vile  !     0,  I  '11  be  patient !     Come  ! 
0,  they  shall  wonder,  —  I  will  be  so  patient ! 


TOBIAS   TURNIPTOP   IN   GENERAL   COURT. 

Tobias  Turniptop,  Member  from  Squashborough. 

Mrs.  Tdrniptop,  his  Wife. 

Solomon  Primmer,  a  Schoolmasta;  his  son-in-law. 

Isaac  Hornblower,       J 

Squire  Dobbs,  >  his  Constituents. 

Deacon  Smalltrader,  ) 

Members  of  the  General  Court,  Speaker,  Clerk,  etc. 

Scene  I.  —  Mr.  Turniptop's  sitting-room,    Mr.  Turniptop  enters  in  a 
state  of  excitement,  followed  by  Mrs.  Tdrniptop. 

MRS.  TURNIPTOP.    Do  be  calm,  father  ! 
Mr.  Turniptop.    How  can  I  be  calm  1     Be  a  candi- 
date yourself  once,  and  see  how  you  stand  it !     Hark  !  did 
ye  hear  the  yells  1 

Mrs.  T.  'Town-meetin'  's  over,  and  now  you  'U  know  if 
you  're  elected. 

Mr.  T.    Give  me  a  glass  of  water.     I  declare,  I  feel  faint ! 

Mrs.  T.  Come,  don't  be  foolish,  father  !  I  never  did  see 
you  so  anxious.  I  believe  you  've  lost  ten  pounds  of  flesh 
since  yesterday.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  keep 
away  from  town-meetin' ! 

Mr.  T.  I  stayed  away  out  of  dignity,  of  course.  If  I  was 
up  for  President  of  the  United  States,  do  you  think  't  would 
look  well  for  me  to  be  hanging  about  the  polls  when  I  was 
being  elected  1 

Mrs.  T.    But  you  ain't  up  for  President. 


TOBIAS   TURNIPTOP   IN   GENERAL   COURT.  133 

Mr.  T.  Next  thing  to  it ;  candidate  for  the  General  Court ! 
(Looks  from  the  window.)  I  declare !  if  there  ain't  Isaac  Hornblower 
coming  like  Jehu-mighty  round  Slouch's  corner !  pulling 
straight  for  our  house  !     News  o'  the  election,  I  bet  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Land's  sake  !  The  man  will  run  himself  out  of  a 
year's  gi'owth  !  You  're  elected,  father,  you  're  elected !  I 
see  it  in  his  coat  tails. 

Mr.  T.  You  shall  have  that  new  gown  !  I  shall  be  Hon- 
orable Mr.  Turniptop  ;  and  you  '11  be  Honorable  Mrs.  Turnip- 
top  !  I  '11  have  the  old  wagon  painted  over.  It  's  a  day  to 
be  remembered  a  thousand  years,  mother  !     Just  see  how  my 

heart  thumps  !      (Places  her  hand  on  his  waistcoat.) 

Mrs.  T.  My,  father  !  you  '11  bust  a  button  !  (Puts  her  ear  to  his 
breast.  A  loud  knocking  at  the  door.)  Land's  sake  !  I  can  hear  it, 
thump,  thump  ! 

Mr.  T.  That  ain't  my  heart,  —  it 's  Hornblower's  fist !  Run 
to  the  door,  mother  !  Tell  him  I  'm  engaged,  but  you  guess 
I  '11  see  him.     I  must  be  on  my  dignity,  you  know. 

Mrs.  T.    Honorable  Mr.  Turniptop  !     (Goes  out.) 

Mr.  T.  Be  calm,  be  calm,  Turniptop  !  (Sits  down ;  pretends  to 
be  reading  newspaper.     Isaac  Hornblower  rushes  in.) 

Hornblower  (speaking  as  if  out  of  breath).  Neighbor  Turniptop ! 

!Mr.  T.  Oh  !  how  do  you  do.  Neighbor  Hornblower  ?  Take 
a  seat  and  sit  down.  Fine  day.  How  's  the  folks  1  We  're  all 
pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  only  mother,  she  's  got  a  leetle  touch 
o'  the  rheumatiz.     Any  news,  Isaac  1 

H.    The  election  ! 

Mr.  T.  Oh  !  the  election.  I  'd  forgot  about  the  election. 
Kept  to  home  by  a  headache. 

H.    You  've  got  it,  Neighbor  Turniptop  I 

Mr.  T.  (hand  to  his  head).  Yes  ;  had  it  more  or  less  all  day  ; 
got  it  eating  a  mince-pie. 

H.    I  mean,  you  've  got  the  election  ! 

Mr.  T.    Sho,  Isaac  !  I  thought  you  meant  the  headache. 

H.  You  've  beat  Scratchgravel  all  hollow  ;  gone  in  by  a 
clean  majority ;  smack  smooth,  and  no  two  words  about  it ! 

Mr.  T.   (cliuckling  behind  his  newspaper).      Got  a  majority!      Kccp 


134  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

cool,  Isaac.  No  use  being  obflusticated.  Hang  up  yoi^r  hat, 
and  stay  to  supper,  won't  ye  ]  And  we'll  talk  it  over.  You  're 
quite  sui'e  ] 

H.  Sure  as  a  gun.  I  heard  it  with  my  own  eyes.  Squire 
Dobbs  read  it  off  to  the  whole  meeting  :  "  Tobias  Turniptop 
has  fifty-nine,  and  —  is  —  chosen  ! '  You  're  a  representative 
to  the  General  Court,  Neighbor  Turniptop  ! 

Mr.  T.  {with  great  deliberation).  I  regret  to  say  I  cannot  ac- 
cept. 

H.    Can't  accept !     You  're  crazy,  Turniptop  ! 

Mr.  T.  I  'm  very  sorry  that  a  sense  of  the  weighty  respon- 
sibility compels  me  — 

H.  Then  I  must  run  right  back  and  tell  'em,  so  they  can 
order  a  new  election. 

Mr.  T.  Hold  on  !  Don't  be  hasty.  You  go  off  like  a  fire- 
cracker. These  things  require  serious  consideration.  I  '11 
consider  on  't ;  and  if,  after  due  deliberation,  I  think  I  can 
conscientiously  assume  an  office — hem  —  of  such  tremenjuous 
responsibility,  and  if  my  constituents  insist  on  my  going,  — 
why,  then  I  shall  not  feel  justified  in  declining  so  great  an 
honor. 

H.  That 's  the  way  to  talk  !  You  're  just  cut  out  for  a 
representative. 

Mr.  T.    Think  so,  Isaac  1 

H.    Everybody  thinks  so. 

Mr.  T.    Eight  man  in  the  right  place,  eh  1 

H.  Perzac'ly.  But  I  want  to  tell  ye  one  thing.  You  must 
go  agin  the  dog-tax. 

Mr.  T.    0,  sartin.     I  shall  oppose  the  dog-tax. 

H.    It  's  infamous. 

Mr.  T.   It 's  tyrannical. 

H.    But  we  really  need  a  cat-tax. 

Mr.  T.  I  think  myself  a  cat-tax  would  be  judicious,  —  veiy 
judicious. 

H.  I  see  you  are  all  right.  {SJial-ing  hands  with  Mr.  T.)  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  election,  and  I  'm  sure  you  '11  be  a  credit 
to  Squashborough.    (Going.)     Repeal  the  dog-tax,  remember ! 


TOBIAS   TURNIPTOP   IN   GENERAL   COURT.  135 

Mr.  T.  Repeal  is  the -n-ord.  {K.  goes  out.)  Hornblower  has 
got  three  dogs,  and  his  neighbors  have  all  the  cats,  and  that 
accounts  for  his  principles.  No  matter.  Honorable  Tobias 
Turniptop,  —  ahem  !  (Pulls  up  his  dickey,  and  ivallcs  about  with  an  air 
of  importance.)  Member  fi'om  Squashborough,  ahem  !  (Strikes  an 
attitude  as  if  about  to  make  a  speech.)  Mr.  Speaker!  ahem!  Mr. 
Speaker!     (Gesticulates.) 

Squire  Dobbs  enters  ;  stands  astonished,  regarding  Tukniptop. 

Sq.  D.  (aside).   The  man  's  in  a  fit. 

Mr.  T.  Mr.  Spea —  (Seeing  Dobbs.)  Dobbs!  Mr.  Dobbs  !  I 
beg  pardon  ! 

Sq.  D.    What  'pears  to  be  the  matter  1 

Mr.  T.  (holds  the  arm  that  was  extended).  A  little  exercise  for 
my  old  newralligy  !     Dreadful  shooting  pains,  you  know  ! 

Sq.  D.  I  hope  they  won't  interfere  with  your  official 
duties. 

Mr.  T.    Official  duties,  —  hem  !  thank  you  ! 

Sq.  D.  It  's  a  highly  responsible  office,  this  going  to  the 
General  Court. 

Mr.  T.  I  am  aware  of  that,  sir,  totally  and  officially ;  and 
I  shall  endeavor  not  to  disappoint  my  constituents. 

Sq.  D.    We  shall  expect  you  to  sustain  the  dog-tax. 

Mr.  T.    I  shall  study  the  Constitution  on  that  subject. 

Sq.  D.    Dogs  are  a  luxury. 

Mr.  T.    a  very  decided  luxury. 

Sq.  D.    Liable  to  run  mad,  and  kill  sheep. 

Mr.  T.    Extremely  liable. 

Sq.  D.    a  very  proper  subject  for  taxation. 

Mr.  T.    They  shall  be  taxed  up  to  the  hub  ! 

Sq.  D.    I  see  wc  are  to  have  an  able  representative. 

Mr.  T.    Squashborough  is  in  my  hands. 

Sq.  D.  Kemcmber  you  had  my  vote.  Good  morning.  (Goes 
out.) 

Mr.  T.  Dobbs  has  no  dog,  and  that  accounts  for  his  prin- 
ciples. 

Deacon  Smalltrader  enters. 

Djeacon^  SiiALLTRADER.   I  havo  just  run  in  to  have  tho  honor. 


136  PUBLIC  AND  PAELOK   DIALOGUES. 

{Shakes  hands  with  Turniptop.)    I  rejoice  that  we  have  finally  got 
a  man  who  will  do  justice  to  Squashborough. 

Mr.  T.    Never  fear ;  Squashborough  is  on  my  shoulders. 

Dea.  S.  What  we  want  is  wholesome  laws,  wholesome  laws, 
Brother  Turniptop. 

Mr.  T.  My  motto  exactly.  What  do  you  —  hem  —  think 
of  the  dog-tax,  deacon  1 

Dea.  S.  (snaps  his  fingers).  I  don't  care  that  for  the  dog-tax, 
one  way  or  the  other.     It  's  a  petty  consideration. 

Mr.  T.    Very  petty. 

Dea.  S.  Beneath  the  consideration  of  a  member  from 
Squashborough. 

Mr.  T.    Entirely  beneath. 

Dea.  S.    But  what  we  want  is  a  bank. 

Mr.  T.    True ;  a  bank  for  Squashborough. 

Dea.  S.  And  to  have  the  salaries  of  state  officers  all  cut 
down  one  half 

Mr.  T.   Except  the  pay  of  the  representatives,  of  course. 

Dea.  S.    And  a  tax  on  pedlers. 

Mr.  T,  I  believe  you.  They  should  be  taxed  out  of  exist- 
ence. 

Dea.  S.  You  're  the  man  for  my  vote.  Act  up  to  your 
principles  and  the  country  is  safe.     (Goes  out.) 

Mr.  T.  Principles  !  A  dry-goods  man  wants  to  kill  off  the 
pedlers,  and  a  man  without  dogs  wants  dogs  taxed,  and  a  man 
with  dogs  don't  want  'em  taxed  ;  and  what 's  a  representative 
to  do  1  (Makes  a  serpentine  motion  with  Ms  finger.)  Steer  betwixt  'em; 
them  's  my  principles ;  and  'cording  to  my  notion  them  's 
all  the  principles  a  member  of  the  General  Court  can  afford 
to  have,  and  be  pop'lar. 

Solomon  Primmer  eiiters. 
Of  all  the  world !  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see  ! 

Solomon.  This  is  a  great  thing  for  our  family,  father-in- 
law  ! 

Mr.  T.    The  highest  honor. 

Sol.  You  are  placed  in  a  magnificent  position.  It  will  be 
in  your  power  to  do  great  things. 


TOBIAS   TUENIPTOP   IN   GENERAL   COURT.  137 

Mr.  T.  Yes ;  but  see  here,  Solomon !  You  are  a  man  of 
learning,  a  schoolmaster,  and  —  can't  you  give  me  a  hint] 
What 's  your  idea  about  a  bank,  —  dog-tax,  —  a  stringent  ped- 
ler  license,  —  eh  '? 

Sol.    Don't  commit  yourself. 

Mr.  T.    I  see  !     Don't  commit  myself 

Sol.    The  grand  thing  for  you  is  a  speech. 

Mr.  T.    I  see.     A  speech. 

Sol.    Eloquent,  you  know.  'Way  up  !    [Lifts  his  hand.)    Tall! 

Mr.  T.  [lifts  his  hand).    'Way  up  ! 

Sol.    Tuck  in  a  lot  about  constituents  and  responsibility. 

Mr.  T.    I  see  !     And  Bunker  Hill,  eh  1 

Sol.    Yes  ;  and  the  heroes  of  Seventy-six  ! 

Mr.  T.  I  will  !  I  '11  give  'em  the  heroes  of  Seventy-six ! 
They  're  always  poplai*. 

Sol.    And  the  Constitution. 

Mr.  T.    And  the  Constitution  ! 

Sol.  a  man  can  talk  a  week  about  the  Constitution,  and 
not  commit  himself. 

Mr.  T.   And  fought,  bled,  and  died  !  eh  1  [with  a  gleeful  chuckle.) 

Sol.    First  rate  ! 

Mr.  T.    And  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  eh  ? 

Sol.    Capital ! 

'Mr.  T.    And  the  American  Eagle  !  eh  1 

Sol,  Tiptop! 

Mr.  T.   And  standing  up  for  my  constituents,  eh  1 

Sol.    You  '11  do,  you  '11  do. 

Mr.  T.  But  my  speech  must  be  on  to  something.  How 
about  that  1 

Sol.  That 's  nothing.  Write  out  your  speech,  get  it  by 
heart,  then,  no  matter  what  subject  comes  up,  fire  away. 
You  can  leave  a  few  blanks  for  allusions  to  it,  after  you  find 
vut  what  it  is. 

Mr.  T.  I  see,  I  see  !  That 's  the  way  they  do  it !  I  'm 
full  of  my  speech.     If  I  don't  write  it  out,  I  shall  bust. 

Sol.    Then  I  advise  you  to  write  it  out  at  once. 

Mr.  T.    Fought,  bled,  and  died  !  [They  go  out. 


138  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Scene  II.  —  The   General   Court.     Mr.  Turniptop  seated,  with  several 
members  about  him.     Clerk  is  calling  the  roll  for  the  ayes  and  noes. 

Clerk.    Amiuidab  Peterkin. 

First  Member.    Aye. 

Clerk.    Amaziah  Pillsbury. 

Second  M.    Aye. 

Clerk.    John  H.  Rakehandle. 

Third  M.    Aye. 

Clerk.    Jedediah  Riggs. 

Fourth  M.    Aye. 

Clerk.    Welcome  Simpkins. 

Fifth  M.    Aye. 

Clerk.    Tobias  Turniptop. 

Mr.  T.  (emphatically).  No  !  (All  look  at  him.  Aside  to  First 
Member.)  S'pose  I  'm  going  to  vote  aye  when  they  would  n't 
let  me  make  my  speech "?     Not  by  a  jugful ! 

Clerk.    Goodsight  Whiteye. 

Sixth  M.    No. 

Clerk.    Zachariah  Youngfellow. 

Seventh  M.    No. 

Clerk  proceeds  to  count  the  votes. 

Mr.  T.  (aside  to  Members).  I  never  can  get  the  Speaker's 
eye.  There  's  been  over  foi'ty  questions  decided,  and  I  might 
have  said  something  on  every  one,  if  they  'd  give  me  a 
chance. 

Second  M.  Rush  in.  Don't  be  bashful.  The  Bigsuck  Tun- 
nel is  coming  up  next.  You  ought  to  have  something  to  say 
on  that. 

Mr.  T.  I'm  prepared  on  the  Bigsuck  Tunnel.  (Takes  roll  of 
paper  from  his  pocket.)  I  've  got  my  remarks  all  written  out ;  but 
I  'm  so  well  posted  I  sha'  n't  have  to  refer  to  my  notes,  prob- 
ably.    I  '11  have  a  hit  afthe  Bigsuck  ! 

Clerk.  Ayes  forty-nine ;  noes  eleven.  Ordered  to  be  en- 
grossed.    (Passes  bill  to  Messenger.) 

The  Speaker.  The  next  business  in  order  is  the  Bigsuck 
Tunnel  Appropriation  Bill. 


TOBIAS  TURXIPTOP  IN  GENERAL  COURT.     139 

Several  Members  spring  to  their  feet,  all  crying  "  Mr.  Speaker  !  " 

Mr.  T.  {who  is  among  the  first,  brandishing  his  speech).  Mr.  Speaker  1 
Mr.  Speaker  ! 

Speaker  (knocks  with  his  gavel  on  the  desk).  Gentleman  from 
Squashborough. 

Second  M.    Now  you  've  caught  him. 

First  M.    Go  it,  Turuiptop  ! 

Mr.  T.  Mr.  Speaker.  I  rise  to  the  question,  Mr.  Speaker, 
(Attempts  to  put  his  speech  into  his  coat-tail  pocket ;  but  Second  Member 
adroitly  takes  it  instead.)  Mr.  Speaker,  this  is  a  subject  of  vital 
importance.  Standing  this  day  in  the  shadow  of  Bunker  Hill, 
where  our  glorious  forefathers  fought,  bled,  and  died  for  glo- 
rious liberty,  let  us  emulate  their  glorious  example,  and  give 
this  subject  the  consideration  it  deserves.  Are  we  degenerate 
sous  of  degenerate  sires  1  Is  the  fires  of  Seventy-six  extinct 
in  our  bosoms  1  The  Eagle  of  American  Independence  that 
circled  round  and  round  in  his  glorious  gyrofluctions  above 
the  heads  of  those  glorious  heroes  of  Seventy-six,  has  he  come 
down  1  I  repeat,  Mr.  Speaker,  has  the  American  Eagle  gone 
to  seed  ]  Have  we  seen  his  glorious  tail-feathers  descending 
like  a  falling  star  from  the  zenith  ?  No,  Mr.  Speaker  !  Let 
the  advocates  of  this  atrocious  scheme  stand  from  under, 
while  the  bird  of  liberty  sweeps  down  from  his  empyrean 
height,  and  thunders.  No  ! 

My  constituents,  Mr.  Speaker,  have  a  vital  interest  in  this 
Bigsuck  question.  They  have  sent  me  here  to  stand,  as  a  pil- 
lar of  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  in  defence 
of  that  interest.  I  am  decidedly  opposed  to  the  appropria- 
tion. It  is  contrary  to  the  principles  of  freedom.  It  is  a 
backhanded  thrust  at  the  Constitution  of  our  fathers.  It  is  a 
stab  under  the  fifth  rib.  Tell  it  to  your  children  and  to  your 
children's  children,  Mr.  Speaker,  tliat  liberty  is  the  everlast- 
ing birthright  of  the  grand  community  of  nature's  freemen ; 
and  let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  Bigsuck  question. 

Mr.  Speaker,  let  us  for  a  moment  take  a  retrospective  view 
of  the  present  condition  of  the  various  kingdoms  ;md  tribes  of 
the  earth.    Look  abi'oad,  Mr.  Sjjcaker,  over  the  wide  expanse 


140  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

of  nature's  universe,  beyond  the  mighty  billows  of  the  great 
Atlantic.  Behold  Napoleon  going  about  like  a  raging  thun- 
derbolt, seeking  whom  he  may  devour,  —  shuifling  the  cards 
and  turning  Jack  every  time.  Then  shall  it  be  said  that 
we  shirk  the  responsibility  reposed  in  us  1  Shall  we  prove 
recreant  to  our  trust  ] 

Why,  Mr.  Speaker,  what  does  the  honorable  gentleman 
mean  1  No  man  can  have  a  higher  regard  than  I  entertain 
for  his  personal  character  and  integrity  ;  but  does  this  Big- 
suck  question  loom  up  so  huge  before  his  benighted  vision 
that  he  can't  tell  beans  when  the  bag  's  untied  1  Can't  he  see 
through  this  tunnel  1  A  true  patriot,  Mr.  Speaker,  will  die 
for  his  country.  I  stand  here,  Mr.  Speaker,  in  the  interests 
of  my  constituents  ;  and  when  my  constituents  call  on  me 
with  the  voice  of  a  trumpet,  may  I  never  be  backward  in 
coming  forward  !  Standing  here  in  the  shadow  of  Bunker  Hill, 
where  our  glorious  forefathers  fought,  bled,  and  died,  — 

Second  M.    You  said  that. 

Mr.  T.  For  glorious  liberty,  Mr.  Speaker,  —  (Feels  in  his  pock- 
ets Jbr  his  speech.)  To  keep  the  rising  generation  from  falling  into 
the  deep  slough  of  anarchy,  Mr.  Speaker,  —  (Looks  under  the  desk, 
and  on  the  floor. )  I  say,  Mr.  Speaker,  the  rising  generation  — 
{Feels  in  pockets  again. )  With  a  deep  sense  of  my  —  responsibility 
- —  constituents  —  fought,    bled,    and   died,  Mr.   Speaker,  — 

(Turns,  and  looks  in  great  confusion  far  speech.) 

First  M.    I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn. 

Second  M.    I  second  the  motion. 

Speaker.   All  those  in  favor,  say.  Aye. 

All.    Aye  ! 

Speaker.    The  House  is  declared  adjourned. 

.  ill  rise.  Second  Member  very  politely  hands  Mr.  T.  his  speech.  Mr.  T., 
very  red  in  the  face,  hair  disordered,  and  ends  of  dickey  flying,  thanks  Idm 
in  pantomime,  bowing  ridiculously,  as  they  go  out. 


CORIOLANUS   AND   AUFIDIUS.  141 


CORIOLANUS  AND  AUFIDIUS. 

AUFIDIUS.    Thou  canst   not   hope   acquittal  from  the 
Volsciaus. 

CoRiOLANUS.    I  do ;  nay,  more,  expect  their  approbation, 
Their  thanks.     I  will  obtain  them  such  a  peace 
As  thou  durst  never  ask ;  a  perfect  union 
Of  their  whole  nation  with  imperial  Rome, 
In  all  her  privileges,  all  her  rights ; 
By  the  just  gods,  I  will.     What  would'st  thou  more  1 

AuF.    What  would  I  more,  proud  Roman  1    This  I  would  : — 
Fu-e  the  cursed  forest,  where  these  Roman  wolves 
Haunt  and  infest  their  nobler  neighbors  round  them ; 
Extirpate  from  the  bosom  of  this  land 
A  false,  perfidious  people,  who,  beneath 
The  mask  of  freedom,  are  a  combination 
Against  the  liberty  of  human  kind. 
The  genuine  seed  of  outlaws  and  of  robbers. 

Cor.    The  seed  of  gods  !     'T  is  not  for  thee,  vain  boaster, 
'T  is  not  for  such  as  thou  —  so  often  spared 
By  her  victorious  sword  —  to  speak  of  Rome 
But  with  respect  and  awful  veneration. 
Whate'er  her  blots,  whate'er  her  giddy  factions, 
There  is  more  virtue  in  one  single  year 
Of  Roman  story  than  your  Volscian  aimals 
Can  boast  through  all  their  creeping,  dark  duration. 

AuF.    I  thank  thy  rage  ;  this  full  displays  the  traitor. 

Cor.    Traitor!     How  now? 

AuF.    Ay  !  traitor,  Marcius. 

Cor.    Marcius ! 

Aup.    Ay  !  Marcius,  Caius  Marcius.     Dost  thou  think 
I  '11  grace  thee  with  that  robbery,  thy  stolen  name, 
Coriolanus,  in  Corioli  ] 

You  Lords,  and  heads  of  the  State,  perfidiously 
He  has  betrayed  your  V)usincss,  and  given  up, 
For  certain  drops  of  salt,  your  city  Rome  — 


142  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

I  say,  your  city  —  to  his  wife  and  mother ; 
Breaking  his  oath  and  resolution  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk ;  never  admitting 
Counsel  of  the  war ;  but  at  his  nurse's  tears 
He  whined  and  roared  away  your  victory, 
That  pages  blushed  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Looked  wondering  at  each  other. 

Cor.    Hearest  thou.  Mars  ] 

AuF.    Name  not  the  god,  thou  boy  of  tears  ! 

Cor.    Measureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my  heart 
Too  great  for  what  contains  it.     Boy  !     0  slave  ! 
Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsces  !  men  and  lads. 
Stain  all  your  edges  on  me.     Boy  !     False  hound ! 
If  you  have  wi'it  your  annals  true,  't  is  there, 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Fluttered  your  Volscians  in  Corioli ; 
Alone  I  did  it.     Boy  !     But  let  us  part ; 
Lest  my  rash  hand  should  do  a  hasty  deed 
My  cooler  thought  forbids. 

AuF.    I  court 
The  worst  thy  sword  can  do ;  while  thou  from  me 
Hast  nothing  to  expect  but  sore  destruction. 
Quit  then  this  hostile  camp  :  once  more  I  tell  thee, 
Thou  art  not  here  one  single  hour  in  safety. 

Cor.    0  that  I  had  thee  in  the  field, 
With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more,  thy  tribe, 
To  use  my  lawful  sword ! 


SCENE  FROM   "THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE."         143 

SCENE  FROM  ''THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE." 

Portia;  Nerissa;  Servant. 

PORTIA.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary 
of  this  great  world. 

Nerissa.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries 
were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are ;  and 
yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too 
much  as  they  that  starve  with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  hap- 
piness, therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean ;  superfluity  comes 
sooner  by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives  longer. 

PoR.    Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.    They  would  be  better  if  well  followed. 

PoR.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to 
do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  in- 
structions. I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be 
done  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teaching. 
The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the  blood ;  but  a  hot  temper 
leaps  over  a  cold  decree  :  such  a  hare  is  madness,  the  youth, 
to  skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the  cripple.  But 
this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a  husband. 
0  me  !  the  word  "  choose  "  !  I  may  neither  choose  whom  I 
would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike ;  so  is  the  will  of  a  living 
daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard, 
Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none  ] 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous;  and  holy  men  at 
their  death  have  good  insj)irations;  therefore,  the  lotter}-  that 
he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead 
(whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you)  will,  no 
doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly  but  one  whom  you 
shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in  your  affection 
towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  arc  already  come  ? 

PoR.  I  pray  thee,  overname  them  ;  and  as  thou  namest 
them,  I  will  describe  them ;  and  according  to  my  description, 
level  at  my  affection. 


144  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Ner.    First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

PoR.  Ay,  that 's  a  colt,  indeed ;  for  he  doth  nothing  but 
talk  of  his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation  to 
his  own  good  parts  that  he  can  shoe  him  himself.  I  am  much 
afraid  my  lady,  his  mother,  played  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.    Then  is  there  the  county  Palatine. 

PoR.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown ;  as  who  should  say, 
"An  you  will  not  have  me,  choose."  He  hears  merry  tales 
and  smiles  not ;  I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher 
when  he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his 
youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's  head  with  a 
bone  in  his  mouth  than  to  either  of  these.  God  defend  me 
from  these  two ! 

Ner.    How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  Le  Bon  1 

PoR.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man. 
In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker ;  but  he  !  why,  he 
hath  a  horse  better  than  the  Neapolitan's  ;  a  better  bad  habit 
of  frowning  than  the  count  Palatine.  He  is  every  man  in  no 
man  :  if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls  straight  a  capering ;  he  will 
fence  with  his  own  shadow.  If  I  should  marry  him  I  should 
marry  twenty  husbands.  If  he  would  despise  me,  I  would  for- 
give him ;  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness,  I  shall  never  requite 
him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Favilconbridge,  the  young 
baron  of  England "? 

PoR.  You  know  I  say  nothing  to  him,  for  he  understands 
not  me,  nor  I  him  ;  he  hath  neither  Latin,  French,  nor  Italian  ; 
and  you  will  come  into  the  court  and  swear  that  I  have  a  poor 
pennyworth  in  the  English.  He  is  a  proper  man's  picture ; 
but,  alas  !  who  can  converse  with  a  dumb  show  1  How  oddly 
he  is  suited  !  I  think  he  bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his 
round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  beha- 
vior everywhere. 

Ner.    What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his  neighbor  % 

PoR.  That  he  hath  a  neighborly  charity  in  him  ;  for  he  bor- 
rowed a  box  of  the  ear  of  the  Englishman,  and  swore  he 
would  pay  him  again  when  he  was  able.  I  think  the  French- 
man became  his  surety,  and  sealed  under  for  another. 


SCENE   FROM   "THE   MERCHANT   OF   VENICE."         145 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  Duke  of  Sax- 
ony's nephew  1 

PoR.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober ;  and 
most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk  :  when  he  is 
best,  he  is  a  little  worse  than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst, 
he  is  little  better  than  a  beast.  An  the  worst  fall  that  ever 
fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without  him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right 
casket,  you  would  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if  you 
should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

PoR.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee,  set  a 
deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket ;  for,  if  the 
devil  be  within,  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will 
choose  it.  I  will  do  anything,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be  married 
to  a  sponge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these 
lords  :  they-  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determinations ; 
which  is,  indeed,  to  return  to  their  home  and  to  trouble  you 
with  no  more  suit,  unless  you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort 
than  your  father's  imposition,  depending  on  the  caskets. 

PoR.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste 
as  Diana  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's 
will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable  ;  for 
there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  absence, 
and  I  wish  them  a  fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a 
Venetian,  a  scholar  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in  com- 
pany of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

PoR.  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so  was  he 
called. 

Ner.  True,  madam  ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  fool- 
ish eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

PoK.  I  rememl)er  him  well,  and  I  remember  him  worthy 
of  thy  jjfaise.     How  now  !     What  news  1 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Servant.    The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to  take 
their  leave ;  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come  from  a  fifth,  the 
7  J 


146  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Prince  of  Morocco,  who  brings  word  the  Prince,  his  master, 
will  be  here  to-night. 

PoR.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  a  heart 
as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad  of  his 
approach  :  if  he  have  the  condition  of  a  saint  and  the  com- 
plexion of  a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than 
wive  me. 

Come,  Nerissa.     Sirrah,  go  before. 

Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks 
at  the  door.  [Exeunt. 


EXPULSION   OF   CATILINE   FROM   THE  SENATE. 

Scene,  senate  in  session;  a  consul  in  the  chair;  lictors  present.      CiCEEO 

concluding  his  speech. 

CICERO.    Our  long  dispute  must  close.     Take  one  proof 
more 
Of  this  rebellion.     Lucius  Catiline 
Has  been  commanded  to  attend  the  senate. 
He  dares  not  come  !     I  now  demand  your  votes  ! 
Is  he  condemned  to  exile  1 

Enter  Catiline  hastily,  and  as  he  seats  himself  on  one  side,  all  the  senators 

go  over  to  the  other. 

Cic.  {turning  to  Catiline)-     Here  I  repeat  the  charge,  to  gods 
and  men. 
Of  treasons  manifold  ;  —  that  but  this  day- 
He  has  received  despatches  fi-om  the  rebels ; 
That  he  has  leagued  with  deputies  from  Gaul 
To  seize  the  province,  —  nay,  he  has  levied  troops. 
And  raised  his  rebel  standard  ;  that  but  now 
A  meeting  of  conspirators  was  held 
Under  his  roof,  with  mystic  rites  and  oaths. 
Pledged  round  the  body  of  a  murdered  slave. 
To  these  he  has  no  answer. 

Catiline.    Conscript  fathers  ! 
I  do  not  rise  to  waste  the  night  in  words ; 


EXPULSION   OF   CATILINE   FROM  THE   SENATE.        147 

Let  that  plebeian  talk  ;  't  is  not  my  trade  : 

But  here  I  stand  for  right  !  —  Let  him  show  proofs  !  — 

For  Roman  right !  though  none,  it  seems,  dare  stand 

To  take  their  share  with  me.     Ay,  cluster  there ! 

Cling  to  your  master,  — judges,  Romans,  slaves  ! 

His  charge  is  false  !     I  dare  him  to  his  proofs. 

You  have  my  answer :  let  my  actions  speak  ! 

Cic.  (interrupting).     Deeds    shall   convince   jon !      Has    the 
traitor  done  1 

Cat.    But  this  I  will  avow,  that  I  have  scorned, 
And  still  do  scorn,  to  hide  my  sense  of  wrong ; 
Who  brands  me  on  the  forehead,  breaks  my  sword, 
Or  lays  the  bloody  scourge  upon  my  back, 
Wrongs  me  not  half  so  much  as  he  who  shuts 
The  gates  of  honor  on  me,  —  turning  out 
The  Roman  from  his  birthright,  —  and  for  what  1 
To  fling  your  offices  to  every  slave  :  (looking  round  him.) 
Vipers,  that  creep  where  man  disdains  to  climb ; 
And  having  wound  their  loathsome  track  to  the  top 
Of  this  huge,  mouldering  monument  of  Rome, 
Hang  hissing  at  the  nobler  men  below. 

Cic.    This  is  his  answer  !     Must  I  bring  more  proofs  ? 
Fathers,  you  know  there  lives  not  one  of  us, 
But  lives  in  peril  of  his  midnight  sword. 
Lists  of  proscription  have  been  handed  round, 
In  which  your  properties  are  made 
Your  murderei''s  hire. 

A  cry  without,  "  More  prisoners !  "   Enter  an  officer  with  letters  for  CiCERO, 
who,  after  looking  at  thein,  sends  them  round  the  senate. 

Cic.    Fathers  of  Rome  !    if  men  can  be  convinced 
By  proof,  as  clear  as  daylight,  here  it  is  ! 
Look  on  these  letters  !     Here 's  a  deep-laid  plot 
To  wreck  the  provinces  ;  a  solemn  league. 
Made  with  all  form  and  ciramistance.     The  time 
Is  desperate, — all  the  slaves  are  up,  —  Rome  shakes  1 
The  heavens  alone  can  tell  how  near  our  graves 
We  stand  even  here  !     The  name  of  Catiline 


148  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Is  foremost  in  the  league.     He  was  their  king. 
Tried  and  convicted  traitor  !     Go  from  Rome  ! 

Cat.  (rising  haughtily).     Come,  consecrated  lictors,  from  your 

thrones  !       (To  the  senate.) 

Fling  down  your  sceptres  !     Take  the  rod  and  axe, 
And  make  the  murder,  as  you  make  the  law  ! 

CiC.      to  an  officer,  and  interrupting  Catiline).      Give  up  the  rec- 
ord of  his  banishment. 

The  officer  gives  it  to  the  consul. 

Cat.  (with  indignation).     Banished  from  Rome  !     What's  ban- 
ished, but  set  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  I  loathe  ! 
"  Tried  and  convicted  traitor  !  "     Who  says  this  ] 
Who  '11  prove  it,  at  his  peril,  on  my  head  1 
Banished  %     I  thank  you  for  't !     It  breaks  my  chain ! 
I  held  some  slack  allegiance  till  this  hour,  — 
But  now  my  sword  's  my  own.     Smile  on,  my  lords  ! 
I  scorn  to  count  what  feelings,  withei'ed  hopes, 
Strong  provocations,  bitter,  burning  wrongs, 
I  have  within  my  heart's  hot  cell  shut  up. 
To  leave  you  in  your  lazy  dignities  ! 
But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you  !  here  I  fling 
Hatred  and  full  defiance  in  your  foce  ! 
Your  consul 's  merciful ;  for  this  all  thanks  ! 
He  dai'es  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline  ! 

Consul  (reac?s).  "Lucius  Sergius  Catiline!  by  the  decree 
of  the  senate,  you  are  declared  an  enemy  and  alien  to  the 
state,  and  banished  from  the  territory  of  the  commonwealth." 

Turning  to  the  lictors. 
Lictors,  drive  the  traitor  from  the  temple  ! 

Cat.    "  Traitor  !  "     I  go,  —  but  I  return  !     This  —  trial  ! 
Here  I  devote  your  senate  !  I  've  had  wrongs. 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age. 
And  make  the  infant's  sinews  strong  as  steel. 
This  day  's  the  birth  of  sorrows  !    This  hour's  work 
Will  breed  proscriptions  !     Look  to  your  hearths,  my  lords ! 
For  there  henceforth  shall  sit,  for  household  gods, 


IRISH   COURTESY.  149 

Shapes  liot  from  Tartarus  !  all  shames  and  crimes ; 
Wan  Treachery,  with  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn  ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  his  brother's  cup  ; 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  axe, 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones ; 
"Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  night, 
And  Massacre  seals  Rome's  eternal  grave  ! 


IRISH   COURTESY. 
Stranger  ;  O'Callaghan. 

STRANGER.  I  have  lost  my  way,  good  friend  ;  can  you 
assist  me  in  finding  it  1 

O'Callaghan.  Assist  you  in  finding  it,  sir  1  Ay,  by  my 
faith  and  troth,  and  that  I  will,  if  it  was  to  the  world's  end 
and  further  too. 

Str.  1  wish  to  return  by  the  shortest  route  to  the  Black 
Rock. 

O'Cal.  Indade,  and  you  will,  so  plase  your  honor's  honor ; 
and  O'Callaghan's  own  self  shall  show  you  the  way,  and 
then  you  can't  miss  it,  you  know. 

Str.  I  would  not  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Mr.  O'Cal- 
laghan. 

O'Cal.  It  is  never  a  trouble,  so  plase  your  honor,  for  an 
Irishman  to  do  his  duty.      (Bowing.) 

Str.    Wliither  do  you  travel,  friend  "i 

O'Cal.  To  Dublin,  so  plase  your  honor.  Sure  all  the 
world  knows  that  Judy  O'Flannaghan  will  be  maiTied  to-mor- 
row, God  willing,  to  Pat  Ryan  ;  and  Pat,  you  know,  is  my 
own  foster-bi'other,  —  because  why,  we  had  l)ut  one  nurse 
betwane  us,  and  that  was  my  own  mother ;  but  she  died 
one  day,  the  Lord  rest  her  swate  soul  !  and  left  mc  an  orphan, 
for  my  father  married  again,  and  his  new  wife  was  the  devil's 
own  child,  and  did  nothing  but  bate  me  from  morning  tiU 
night.     Och  !  why  did  I  not  die  before  I  was  born  to  see  that 


150  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

day  1  for,  by  St.  Patrick,  the  woman's  heart  was  as  cold  as  a 
hailstone. 

Str.  But  what  reason  could  she  have  for  treating  you  so 
unmercifully,  Mr.  O'CaUaghan  ] 

O'Cal.  Ah,  your  honor,  and  sure  enough  there  are  always 
rasons  as  plenty  as  pratees  for  being  hard-hearted.  And  I 
was  no  bigger  than  a  dumpling  at  the  time,  so  I  could  not 
help  myself,  and  my  father  did  not  care  to  help  me  ;  and  so  I 
hopped  the  twig,  and  parted  old  Nick's  darling ;  och,  may 
the  devil  find  her  wherever  she  goes  !  But  here  I  am  alive 
and  lapeing,  and  going  to  see  Pat  married  ;  and  faith,  to  do  him 
justice,  he 's  as  honest  a  lad  as  any  within  ten  miles  of  us, 
and  no  disparagement  neither;  and  I  love  Pat,  and  I  love 
all  his  family,  ay,  by  my  shoul  do  I,  every  mother's  son  of 
them  ;  and  by  the  same  token,  I  have  travelled  many  a  long 
mile  to  be  present  at  his  wedding. 

Str.  Your  miles  in  Ireland  are  much  longer  than  ours,  I 
believe. 

O'Cal.  Indade,  and  you  may  belave  that,  your  honor, 
because  why,  St.  Patrick  measured  them  in  his  coach,  you 
know.  Och,  by  the  powers  !  the  time  has  been  —  but  't  is 
no  matter,  not  a  single  copper  at  all  at  all  now  belongs  to  the 
family,  —  but  as  I  was  saying,  the  day  has  been,  ay,  by  my 
troth  and  the  night  too,  when  the  O'Callaghans,  good  luck  to 
them  !  held  their  heads  up  as  high  as  the  best ;  and  though  I 
have  not  a  rod  of  land  belonging  to  me  but  what  I  hire,  I 
love  my  country,  and  would  halve  my  last  pratee  with  every 
poor  creature  that  has  none. 

Str.    Pray,  how  does  the  bride  appear,  Mr.  O'CaUaghan  1 

O'Cal.  Och,  by  my  shoul,  your  honor,  she's  a  nate  article; 
and  then  she  will  be  rigged  out  as  gay  as  a  lark  and  as 
fine  as  a  peacock ;  because  why,  she  has  a  great  lady  for  her 
godmother,  long  life  and  success  to  her !  who  has  given 
Jiidy  two  milch  cows,  and  five  pounds  in  hard  money ;  and 
Pat  has  taken  as  dacent  apartments  as  any  in  Dublin,  ■ —  a 
nate  comely  parlor  as  you  'd  wish  to  see,  just  six  fate  under 
ground,  with  a  nice  beautiful  ladder  to  go  down,  —  and  all 


BEHIND   THE   TIMES.  151 

SO  complate  and  gentale  and  comfortable,  as  a  body  may 
say  — 

Str.    Nothing  like  comfort,  Mr.  O'Callaghan. 

O'Cal.  Faith,  and  you  may  say  that,  your  honor.  (Rubhinfj 
his  hands.)  Comfort  is  comfort,  says  I  to  Mrs.  O'Callaghan, 
■when  we  are  all  sated  so  cleverly  around  a  great  big  turf  fire, 
as  merry  as  grigs,  with  the  dear  little  grunters  snoring  so 
swately  in  «the  corner,  defying  wind  and  weather,  with  a  dry 
thatch,  and  a  sound  conscience  to  go  to  slape  upon  — 

Str.   a  good  conscience  makes  a  soft  pillow. 

O'Cal.  Och,  jewel !  sure  it  is  not  the  best  beds  that  make 
the  best  slapers ;  for  there 's  Kathleen  and  myself  can  slape 
like  two  gi'eat  big  tops,  and  our  bed  is  none  of  the  softest ; 
because  why,  we  slape  on  the  ground,  and  have  no  bed  at  all 
at  all. 

Str.  It  is  a  pity,  my  honest  fellow,  that  you  should  ever 
want  one.  There!  {Giving  him  a  guinea.)  Good  by,  Mr.  O'Cal- 
laghan. 

O'Cal.  I  '11  drink  yom-  honor's  health,  that  I  will ;  and 
may  God  and  the  blessed  Virgin  bless  you  and  yours,  as  long 
as  grass  grows  and  water  runs  ! 


BEHIND  THE  TIMES. 
Clergyman  ;  Deacon  Homespun  ;  Student. 

STUDENT  (alone).  What  can  be  better  calculated  to  fill 
the  mind  with  pleasure  than  the  study  of  pbilosophy 
and  astronomy  !  How  much  these  sciences  entertain  and  en- 
large the  vmderstanding ! 

Deacox  (behind  the  scene).  Haw  buck  here!  Whoa,  haw! 
Whoa!  (Enters.)  How  do  you,  my  young  friend]  I  don't 
know  but  I  've  'sturbed  you  ;  you  seem  to  be  talking  to  your- 
self. 

Stu.    Not   in   the   least,    sir.      I     was    contemplating    the 


152  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

beauties  of  creation,  and  admiring  the  order  in  which  the 
planets  move.  But,  as  I  am  ever  fond  of  instruction,  I 
shall,  with  no  less  pleasure,  listen  to  your  observations. 

Dea.  Well,  I'm  willing  to  tell  you  anything  I  know  ;  and 
there  a'n't  many  more  experienced,  though  I  say  it  myself. 
But  I  wish  to  know  what  under  heaven  there  is  in  cration 
so  dreadful,  that  you  're  making  such  a  bustle  about  1 

Stu.  Sir,  I  think  there  is  an  infinite  variety»of  objects  to 
entertain  the  rational  mind  :  we  may  contemplate  these  ob- 
jects every  day,  and  still  find  ourselves  lost  in  the  astonishing 
works  of  creation. 

Dea.  Why,  hem !  I  s^pose  there  is  something  ^marhaUe 
enough,  in  cration ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  don't  see  anything 
dreadful  in  cration.  I  find  more  profit  in  contriving  how  to 
fat  my  pork  and  beef  in  one  year,  than  I  should  in  thinking 
^bout  cration  from  July  to  Harnity.  {Steps  to  the  door.)  John, 
drive  that  plaguey  cow  out  o'  the  garden ! 

Stu.  These  employments  are,  indeed,  necessary  and  truly 
commendable  ;  yet  I  find,  as  I  have  opportunity  to  improve, 
many  superior  pleasures  which  demand  and  force  my  admii^a- 
tion  — 

Dea.  0,  you  're  one  of  those  Collegers,  ha^nt  you  1  I  have 
wanted  to  "'spute  along  with  some  of  you  gumplieads  this  long 
time.  But,  pray,  let  a  body  hear  what  these  ^marJcahle  things 
are. 

Stu.  I  think  that  the  order  of  the  solar  system,  the  reg- 
ularity in  which  the  planets  move  round  the  sun  the  centre 
of  our  system,  the  motion  of  the  earth,  which  causes  that 
pleasing  variety  of  seasons,  afford  an  ample  subject  for  our 
contemplS,tion. 

Dea.  The  motion  of  the  earth  !  'Pon  my  word  !  your 
college  wit  has  got  something  new.  Do  you  mean  that  this 
great,  masterly  world  moves,  or  what  do  you  mean  1 

Stu.  I  had  reference,  sir,  to  the  annual  and  the  diurnal 
motion  of  the  earth. 

Dea.  What  under  the  sun  do  you  mean  by  your  animal 
and  dicurnal  motion  1     That 's  something  new. 


BEHIND   THE   TIMES.  153 

Stu.  I  mean  the  motion  of  the  world,  ou  its  own  axis,  from 
west  to  east,  once  in  twenty-four  hours. 

Dea.  AVhat  do  you  say  !  This  masterly  world  turn  over 
every  day  aud  nobody  know  nothing  about  it  1  If  this  world 
turns  over,  what 's  the  reason  my  mill-pond  never  got  oversot, 
and  all  the  water  spilt  out,  long  ago  1  Do  you  think  my  farm 
ever  turned  over  1 

Stu.  Your  farm,  being  connected  with  the  rest  of  the  globe, 
undoubtedly  turns  with  it. 

Dea.  AVhat  !  all  this  globe  turn  over  and  my  farm  turn 
over  too,  and  nobody  ever  find  it  out  ?  Though  I  s'pose  my 
farm  lies  'bout  the  middle  here ;  so  't  would  n't  affect  that 
quite  so  much.  But  what  if  anybody  should  get  close  to  the 
adge,  and  it  should  get  to  whirling  and  whirling,  and,  like 
as  not,  't  would  throw  them  oft'  1 

Stu.  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  the  edge  :  this 
world  is  as  round  as  an  orange. 

Dea.  Why,  you  talk  more  and  more  like  a  fool.  What, 
this  world  round  !  why,  don't  you  see  't  a'n't  round  1  't  is  flat 
as  a  pancake. 

Stu.    The  greatest  philosophers  give  it  as  their  opinion  — 

Dea.  What  do  you  think  I  care  for  what  your  boloso])hers 
say,  when  I  know,  bona  fida,  't  a'n't  so  ?  and  any  half-witted 
fool  knows  better. 

Stu.  Unless  you  can  bring  some  arguments  to  confute 
theirs,  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  disbelieve  them. 

Dea.  Why,  I  know 't  a'n't  so,  and  that's  reason  enough. 
What,  this  world  round,  and  folks  live  on't,  and  turn  over  too! 
That 's  a  darned  likely  story.  But  if  you  want  to  hear  my 
arguments  you  shall  have  them  in  full.  How  do  you  think  folks 
can  stand  with  their  heads  downwards  ?  Why,  if  this  world 
shoidd  only  turn  up  adgeioays,  all  our  houses  and  walls  and 
fences  would  get  to  sliding  and  sliding  ;  and  as  soon  as  they 
got  to  the  adge  they  would  fall  down,  down,  down,  and  final- 
ly they  would  never  stop  :  that  would  be  charming  good 
'conomy. 

Stu.    As  the  atmosphere  turns  with  us,  the  motion  would 

7* 


154  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

not  affect  us  in  the  least ;  our  feet  would  point  to  the  centre 
as  they  now  do. 

Dea.  Yes,  't  would  :  if  anybody  should  get  close  to  the  adge, 
and  it  should  set  to  whirling  round,  't  would  give  them  a  con- 
founded hoist,  and,  just  as  likely  as  not,  't  would  throw  them 
off;  and  that  a'u't  all ;  't  would  make  their  heads  swim  so  that 
they  could  not  stand  :  what  do  you  think  of  that  %  Why, 
this  world  is  fiat,  and  laid  on  its  foundation,  else  it  could  not 
stand  a  moment. 

Stu.  What  supports  that  foundation.  Deacon  Homespun  1 
That  must  have  something  to  stand  on  too. 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem !  hem !  How  do  you  think  I  should 
know  ■?  But  I  know  't  is  so,  and  that 's  reason  enough.  But 
what  do  you  ax  such  foolish  questions  for  %  Anybody  knows 
that  this  great  masterly  world  can't  stand  without  it  had 
something  to  stand  on. 

Stu.  But  if  the  world  has  a  foundation,  how  does  the  sun 
get  through  ] 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem  !  hem  !  that 's  another  silly  question  ; 
but  there  's  no  difficulty  at  all  in  that.  Why,  there 's  a  little 
hole  just  big  enough  for  the  sun  to  get  through,  without 
weakening  the  foundation. 

Stu.  But  here  is  another  difficulty,  Deacon  :  the  sun  is 
much  bigger  than  this  earth,  and  consequently  must  destroy 
your  foundation. 

Dea.  What  do  you  say  1  the  sun  bigger  than  this  great  world  ! 
You  great  dunce  !  't  a'u't  a  bit  bigger  than  a  cart-wheel. 

Stu.  If  it  be  so  small,  how  can  it  enlighten  the  whole 
world,  especially  when  it  is  so  far  from  us  % 

Dea.  Hem  !  I  don't  raly  see  into  that  myself  But  then  I 
don't  s'pose  't  is  sich  a  desput  ways  from  us  ;  I  should  not  think 
it  was  more  than  about  two  or  three  hundred  7nilds,  or  such  a 
business.  But  I  don't  quite  see  how  it  gets  through  the 
foundation. 

Stu.  0,  I  see  into  it.  I  guess  it  does  not  go  through  ;  it 
only  just  goes  down  behind  the  trees,  out  of  sight,  and  then 
comes  directly  back  into  the  same  place  ;  and,  as  it  is  so 
small  a  thing,  we  cannot  see  it  in  the  night. 


BEHIXD    THE   TIMES.  155 

Dea.  That 's  about  as  cunning  as  the  rest  of  your  talk  ! 
Why,  you  great  dunce,  you  !  You  could  see  the  sun  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  your  face,  if  it  was  ever  so  dark. 

Stu.    Then  I  think  you  must  give  up  your  opinion. 

Dea.  Give  it  up  !  not  I  !  Think  I  '11  give  up  anything  I 
know  !  I  've  been  —  less  me  see,  how  old  's  my  Nab  ?  — 
I  've  lived  in  this  town  sixty-four  years,  and  for  nine  years  I 
was  the  first  corporal  in  the  company  ;  and  for  twelve  years 
I  've  been  the  oldest  deacon  in  this  place,  and  never  heard  of 
the  world's  tm-ning  over :  't  is  impossible  for  it  to  go  so  fast 
as  to  turn  over  every  day. 

Stu.  But  look  here,  Deacon  Homespun  :  as  the  sun  is  so 
far  from  us,  how  many  thousand  times  faster  must  it  move 
than  the  earth  to  go  round  us  in  twenty -four  hours  1 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem  !  Why  do  you  ax  such  a  foolish  ques- 
tion 1  I  don't  raly  understand  that ;  but  the  Bible  says  so, 
and  nobody  has  any  business  to  consjmte  the  Bible,  you  young 
blasphemer  ! 

Stu.  The  Bible  was  not  given  to  teach  us  philosophy,  but 
religion  ;  therefore  it  proves  nothing  about  it. 

Dea.    But  what  makes  you  think  the  earth  is  round  1 

Stu.  Several  reasons  :  the  circular  shadow  of  the  earth 
when  it  eclipses  the  moon  ;  and  because  several  persons  have 
sailed  round  it. 

Dea.  The  earth  never  ^clipses  the  moon  !  Do  you  think  the 
earth  ever  gets  turned  up  between  .us  and  the  moon  1  No  ; 
't  is  the  sun  that  'clipses  the  moon.  As  for  sailing  round,  they 
only  sail  close  to  the  adge,  and  take  special  care  that  they 
don't  sail  oif ;  but  if  the  world  turns  round  in  twenty-fovir 
hours,  they  might  tie  up  their  vessel  to  a  tree,  and  it  would 
go  round  of  itself,  every  day. 

Stu.  But  how  happens  it  that  the  moon  is  always  eclipsed 
when  the  sun  is  going  through  your  foundation  1 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem !  Well,  I  a'n't  going  to  give  up  any- 
thing I  know ;  and  I  sha'  n't  believe  this  world  turns  round 
till  I  find  I  can  stand  on  my  head ;  and  I  know  the  world 
can't  stand  without  it  has  something  to  stand  on. 


156  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Stu.  How  do  you  suppose  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  are 
supported  without  their  proper  foundation  1 

Dea.  How  do  you  think  I  know  1  But  if  the  world  turns 
round,  what 's  the  reason  our  minister  never  said  nothing 
about  it  1 

Stu.  He  '11  tell  you  so,  whenever  you  ask  him,  or  he  is  not 
fit  for  a  minister. 

Dea.  You  're  an  impudent  son  of  a  blockhead !  Do  you 
mean  to  consult  me  to  my  face  *?  and  a  deacon  too  ! 

Stu.    If  you  are  offended,  I  've  no  more  to  say. 

Dea.  Well,  I  '11  make  you  know  better  than  to  conspute  me  ! 
Enter  Clergyman. 

Clergyman.  Hold,  hold,  Deacon !  I  am  surprised  to  see 
you  in  a  passion. 

Dea.    I  'm  not  in  a  passion  ;  I  am  as  mild  — 

Cler.    But  I  am  sure  you  were  in  a  passion. 

Dea.  Well,  he 's  a  villain,  and  ought  to  be  kicked  by  every 
good  man. 

Cler,    What  has  he  done  1 

Dea.  Done  !  He 's  done  everything ;  he  deserves  to  be 
hanged. 

Cler.    Let  us  hear  what  it  is. 

Dea.  Why,  he's  a  blasphemer;  he  holds  up  the  most  con- 
hominahle  doctrine  that  ever  was  uttered  ! 

Cler.  But  what  has  he  said,  Deacon,  which  so  exasperates 
youl 

Dea.    He  'nies  the  Bible  ! 

Cler.    Wherein  does  he  deny  the  Bible,  pray  1 

Dea.  He  says  this  world  is  round  ;  that  it  turns  round 
every  day  ;  that  the  sun  is  bigger  than  all  this  world ! 
There  's  for  you  !  if  a  man  won't  be  in  a  passion  when  such 
conhominahle  doctrines  are  held  up,  he  's  an  enemy  to  the 
neighborhood. 

Cler.  I  don't  see  anything  criminal  in  that,  or  contrary  to 
Scripture. 

Stu.    I  told  you  your  minister  would  tell  you  so. 

Dea.  You  're  all  a  pack  of  blasphemers  ;  you  'ny  the  Bible, 
and  I  won't  stay  with  you.      {Goes  off,  driving  his  team.) 


THE  IRISHMAN'S   LESSON.  157 

THE   IRISHMAN'S    LESSON. 

Doctor  Wisepate  ;  Thady  O'Keen  ;  Robert. 

Doctor  Wisepate,  in  a  morning-gown  and  velvet  nightcap,  discovered  at  a 
table  at  breakfast.     A  wig-box  near  him  lying  open. 

DOCTOR  WISEPATE.  Plague  on  her  ladyship's  ugly 
cur  !  it  has  broke  three  bottles  of  bark  that  I  had  pre- 
pared myself  for  Lord  Spleen.  I  wonder  Lady  Apes  troubled 
me  with  it.  But  I  understand  it  threw  down  her  flower-pots 
and  destroyed  all  her  myrtles.  I  'd  send  it  home  this  minute, 
but  I  'm  unwilling  to  offend  its  mistress ;  for,  as  she  has  a 
deal  of  money  and  no  relation,  she  may  think  proper  to  re- 
member me  in  her  will.  {Noise  within.)  Eh !  what  noise  is 
that  in  the  hall  % 

Enter  Thady  O'Keen,  dirty  and  wet,  followed  by  Robert. 

T.  O'Keen.  But  I  must  and  will,  do  you  see.  Very  pretty 
indeed,  keeping  people  standing  in  the  hall  shivering  and 
shaking  with  the  wet  and  cold  ! 

Robert.  The  mischief's  in  you,  I  believe ;  you  order  me 
about  as  if  you  were  my  master. 

Dr.  W.  Why,  what's  all  this]  who  is  this  unmannerly 
fellow  1 

T.  O'K.  There  !  your  master  says  you  are  an  vmmannerly 
fellow. 

Rob.  Sir,  it 's  Lady  Apes's  servant ;  he  has  a  letter,  and 
says  he  won't  deliver  it  into  any  one's  hands  but  your  honor's. 
Now,  I  warrant  my  master  will  teach  you  better  behavior. 

\^Exit. 

T.  O'K.    0,  are  you  sure  you  are  Doctor  Wisepate  1 

Dr.  W.    Sure  !  to  be  sure  I  am. 

T.  O'K.    Och  !  plague  on  my  hat,  how  wet  it  is  !     [Shakes 

his  hat  about  tlie  room,  etc.) 

Dr.  W.  {lays  his  spectacles  down  and  rises  from  the  table).  Zounds  ! 
fellow,  don't  wet  my  room  in  that  manner  ! 

T.  O'K.    Eh  !     Well  —  0,  I  beg  pardon  !  —  there  's  the  let- 


158  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

ter ;  and  since  I  must  not  dry  my  hat  in  your  room,  why,  as 
you  particularly  desire  it,  I  will  go  down  to  the  kitchen,  and 
dry  it  and  myself  before  the  fire.     {Goes  out.) 

Dr.  W.  Here,  you,  sir,  come  back.  —  I  must  teach  him 
better  manners.  (2t!e-ento- Thady  O'Keen.)  Hark,  you  fellow, — 
whom  do  you  live  with  ! 

T.  O'K.  Whom  do  I  live  with  1  —  why,  with  my  mistress, 
to  be  sure,  Lady  Apes. 

Dr.  W.  And  pray,  sir,  how  long  have  you  lived  with  her 
ladyship  ? 

T.  O'K.    How  long  1     Ever  since  the  first  day  she  hired  me. 

Dr.  W.  And  has  her  ladyship  taught  you  no  better 
manners  1 

T.  O'K.  Manners'?  She  never  taught  me  any,  good  or 
bad. 

Dr.  "W.  Then,  sir,  I  will ;  I  '11  show  you  how  you  should 
address  a  gentleman  when  you  enter  a  room.  What 's  your 
name  1 

T.  O'K.  Name  1  Why,  it 's  Thady  O'Keen,  my  jewel.  — 
What  in  wonder  is  he  going  to  do  with  my  name  !     (Aside.) 

Dr.  W.  Then,  sir,  you  shall  be  Dr.  Wisepate  for  a  while, 
and  I  '11  be  Thady  O'Keen,  just  to  show  you  how  you  should 
enter  a  room  and  deliver  a  letter. 

T.  O'K.  Eh  !  what  1  make  a  swap  of  ourselves  1  With 
all  my  heart.     Here  's  my  wet  hat  for  you. 

Dr.  W.    There,  sit  down  in  my  chair.      (Going.) 

T.  O'K.  Stop,  stop,  honey !  by  my  shoul  you  can  never 
be  Thady  O'Keen  without  you  have  this  little  shillelagh  in 
your  fist.     There  ! 

Dr.  W.    Very  well.     Sit  you  down.     { Takes  Thady's  hat,  etc., 

and  goes  out.) 

T.  O'K.  (solus).  Let  me  see,  —  I  can  never  be  a  doctor 
either,  without  some  sort  of  a  wig.  0,  here  is  one,  —  and 
here 's  my  spectacles,  faith  !  On  my  conscience,  I  'm  the 
thing  !  (Puts  on  the  wig  awkwardly,  and  the  spectacles ;  then  sits  in  the 
doctor's  chair.  Dr.  Wisepate  knocks.)  Walk  in,  honey.  (Helps 
himself  to  chocolate  and  bread  and  butter.) 


THE   IRISHMAN'S   LESSON.  159 

Re-enter  Dr.  "Wisepate,  bowing. 

Dr.  W,  Please  your  honor  —  (Aside.)  What  assurance 
the  fellow  has  ! 

T.  O'K.  Speak  out,  young  man,  and  don't  be  bashful. 
{Eating,  etc.) 

Dr.  W.  Please,  your  honor,  my  lady  sends  her  respectful 
compliments,  —  hopes  your  honor  is  well. 

T.  O'K.   Pretty  well,  pretty  well,  I  thank  you. 

Dr.  W.  And  has  desired  me  to  deliver  your  honor  this 
letter. 

.    T.  O'K.    That  letter  ]    Well,  why  don't  you  bring  it  to  me  1 
Pray,  am  I  to  rise  from  the  table  1 

Dr.  W.  So,  he 's  acting  my  character  with  a  vengeance. 
But  I  '11  hvuuor  him.  [Aside.)  There,  your  honor,  ( Gives  the 
letter,  bowing.) 

T.  O'K.  [opens  the  letter  and  reads). 

"  Sir,  —  Sriice  my  dear  Flora  has  given  you  so  much  uneasiness 

[Och  !    by  my  shoul,  that 's  no  he  !],    I  beg  leave  to  inform  you 

that  a  gentleman  shall  call  either  to-day  or  to-morrow  for  her.     If 

it  should  rain,  I  rec^uest  the  poor  thing  may  have  a  —     [IVhat  's 

this  ?  —  c-o-a  —  coat !  —  coat,  no  —  coach.] 

«  Yours." 

Hem  !  well,  —  no  answer  's  required,  young  man. 

Dr.  W.  His  impudence  has  struck  me  almost  dumb.  [Aside.) 
No  answer,  your  honor  1 

T.  O'K.  No,  my  good  fellow ;  but  come  here ;  let  me 
look  at  you.  0,  you  seem  very  wet.  Why,  it 's  you,  I  un- 
derstand, who  brought  this  troublesome  cur  a  few  days  ago  : 
you  have  been  often  backwards  and  forwards,  but  I  could  never 
see  you  till  now.  Hollo,  Robert  !  where  's  my  lazy,  good-for- 
uothing  servant  1     Robert !      [Rings  a  hell.) 

Dr.  W.    Eh  !    what  the  deuce  does  he  mean  1     [Aside.) 

Enter  Robert,  who  stares  at  them  both. 

Rob.    Eh!     Did  —  did  you  call,  sir  ]     (To  Dr.  Wisepate.) 
T.  O'K.    Yes,  sirrah.     Take  that  poor  fellow  down  to  the 
kitchen ;  he  's  come  upon  a  foolish  errand  this  cold  wet  day,  — 
80,  do  you  see,  give  him  something  to  eat  and  drink,  —  as 


IGO  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

much  as  he  likes,  —  aud  bid  my  stewai-d  give  him  a  guinea  for 
his  trouble. 

Rob.    Eh  ! 

T.  O'K.  Thunder  and  ouns,  fellow  !  must  I  put  my  words 
into  my  mouth,  and  take  them  out  again,  for  you  1  Thady 
(to  the  Doctor),  my  jewel,  just  give  that  blockhead  of  mine  a 
rap  on  his  sconce  with  your  little  bit  of  a  switch,  and  I  '11  do 
as  much  for  you  another  time. 

Dr.  W.  So,  instead  of  my  instructing  the  fellow  he  has 
absolutely  instructed  me.  (Aside.)  Well,  sir,  you  have  con- 
vinced me  what  Dr.  Wisepate  should  be,  aud  now  suppose  we 
are  ourselves  again. 

T.  O'K.  (rises).  With  all  my  heart,  sir.  Here 's  your 
honor's  wig  and  spectacles,  and  now  give  me  my  comfortable 
hat  and  switch. 

Dr.  W.  And,  Robert,  obey  the  orders  that  my  representa- 
tive gave  you. 

Rob.    What !  carry  him  down  to  the  kitchen  1 

T.  O'K.  No,  young  man,  I  sha'  n't  trouble  you  to  carry  me 
down,  I  '11  carry  myself  down,  and  you  shall  see  what  a 
beautiful  hand  Master  O'Keen  is  at  a  knife  and  fork. 

[Exit  luith  Egbert. 

Dr.  W.  (solus).  Well,  this  fellow  has  some  humor ;  indeed, 
he  has  fairly  turned  the  tables  upon  me.  I  wish  I  could  get 
him  to  give  a  dose  of  my  prescribing  to  her  ladyship's  cats 
and  dogs,  for  the  foolish  woman  has  absolutely  bequeathed  in 
her  will  an  annual  sum  for  the  care  of  each,  after  her  death. 
0  dear  !  dear  !  how  much  more  to  her  credit  it  would  be  to 
consider  the  present  exigencies  of  her  country,  and  add  to  the 
number  of  voluntary  contributions  ! 


EH  !    WHAT  IS   IT  ?  161 


EH!  WHAT   IS  IT? 

Mb.  Murchso  ;    Clara  Murchso,  Ms  daughter;  Charles  Ford,  her 
lover;  Major  Joseph  Vanquelecr;  Servant. 

Scene,  a  parlor.     Clara,  seated  at  a  window  sewing. 

CLARA  {solus).  1  do  not  know  what  I  want,  only  I  'm  sure 
it  is  nothing  I  have,  or  can  get.  I  am  sick  of  this 
imprisonment,  sick  of  constantly  hoping  and  constantly  being 
disappointed.  I  wonder  if  my  father  has  the  notion  that  I 
shall  be  an  old  maid  !  That  patriarch  who  came  so  near 
cooking  his  son  seems  to  me  now  to  have  been  a  gentle  old 
soul.  What  was  his  sacrifice  to  that  which  is  being  made  of 
me,  on  the  altar  of  my  father's  deafness  1  Before  he  ceased 
to  hear  he  did  not  object  to  my  going  into  company,  and 
gentlemen  calling  to  see  me  ;  he  did  not  rob  me  of  everything 
except  life.  But  now!  And  when  a  young  man  writes  and 
proposes  to  him  for  me,  —  for  of  course  a  young  man  of  any 
delicacy  of  feeling  could  never  shout  about  such  a  matter,  — 
he  calmly  tears  up  the  letter,  and  shakes  his  head,  and  says 
to  himself,  monotonously,  "  No,  no ;  that  is  not  the  one 
whom  I  have  imagined."  If  he  only  would  not  think  aloud, 
it  would  not  be  so  bad ;  but  when  I  hear  that,  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  scream  with  rage.  What  creature  can  he  have  ima- 
gined 1  What  new  horror  has  he  evolved  from  his  cogitations  1 
Ah  !  here  he  comes.  I  should  not  blame  him  altogether,  for 
he  used  to  be  a  good  papa ;  but  —  there  are  some  things  he 
forgets,  or  does  not  know,  about  young  women. 

Enter  Mr.  Murchso,  holding  a  l>ook  in  his  lefi  hand,  and  with  the  forefinger 
of  his  right  he  follows  the  line  as  he  reads. 

Murchso.  (Reads.)  "Deafness  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
supportable of  afflictions."  (SpeaJcs.)  Ah  yes,  it  is  so 
indeed !  (Reads.)  "  Cutting  oft"  its  victim  from  all  the 
sweet  enjoyments  of  society  and  love."  (Speaks.)  The 
author  of  this  book  appreciates  deafness,  but  does  not 
possess  a  realizing  sense  of  matrimony.     The  fact  that  her 

K 


162  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

storms  never  caused  my  tympanum  to  vibrate,  and  so  did 
not  annoy  me,  killed  my  poor  wife  —  and  prolonged  my 
existence.  ( While  Jte  has  been  speaking,  his  daughter,  of  whom  he  has 
taken  no  notice,  hearing  a  signal,  leaves  the  room,  but  to  assure  herself  that  he 
cannot  hear  her,  lifts  a  chair  and  throws  it  violently  to  the  floor,  then  makes  her 
exit.  He  takes  no  notice  of  the  disturbance,  but  reads  on.)  "Happily, 
unless  there  is  a  radical  injury  to  the  organism  of  the  ear, 
there  are  few  cases  of  quite  incurable  deafness."  (Speaks.) 
Now,  that  is  where  I  am  troubled.  I  do  not  think  my  or- 
ganism is  radically  injured.  [Pokes  his  fingers  into  his  ears.  Reads.) 
"  Obstruction  of  the  auricular  cavities  is  a  frequent  cause." 
{Places  the  book  on  the  table  and  examines  his  ears  with  both  fingers.  Speaks.) 
No  ;  I  do  not  find  any  radical  injury  to  my  organism,  or  any 
obstruction  of  my  cavities. 

While  speaking,  Mk.  Vanqtjeleur  enters,  dressed  in  a  shabby  suit,  coat 
closely  buttoned,  although  a  hot  day. 

VanQ.  Ahem  !  (Mr.  Mukchso  gives  no  evidence  of  having  seen  or 
heard  him.)  I  beg  your  pardon,  —  Mr,  Murchso,  I  believe  I 
have  the  honor  of  addressing  % 

Murchso.  Ah  !  what  a  terrible  infliction  —  a  cui'se  this  is 
to  come  thus  upon  one  !     (Still  not  seeing  Mk.  Vanqueleur.) 

Vanq.  I  hope  I  do  not  intrude,  sir;  I  have  been  recom- 
mended by  a  friend. 

Enter  Servant  with  a  letter,  which  he  lays  on  the  table. 

Murchso.  And  to  think  that  I  can  learn  nothing  of  that 
famous  doctor  to  whom  I  have  written  !  Perhaps  he  is  sick, 
or  has  left  the  city,  or  is  dead. 

Vanq.    This  old  buffer  is  certainly  deaf ! 

Murchso  seats  himself  and  reaches  out  for  the  book,  but  takes,  instead,  the 
letter,   tears  open  the  envelope,  and  reads  aloud,  as  usual. 

(Eeads.)  "  My  dear  Murchso,  I  take  the  liberty,  as  an  old 
friend,  of  telling  you  that  I  interest  myself  a  great  deal  in 
your  pretty  daughter,  and  I  think  I  have  found  an  excellent 
husband  for  her,  —  a  young  man  who  is  handsome,  rich,  ac- 
complished—  "  (Placidly  tears  up  the  letter,  saying)  No,  no;  that 
is  not  the  one  whom  I  have  imagined. 

Vanq.  (aside).     How  can  I  make  anything  out  of  this  1 


EH  !    WHAT   IS  IT  ?  163 

MuRCHSO.  He  will  come  in  good  time.  But  these  young 
men  whom  they  propose  to  me  —  Bah !  I  am  not  in  the 
market  for  husbands  ;  it  is  a  deaf  man  whom  I  seek.  I  want 
a  deaf  man,  —  a  very  deaf  man.  I  would  make  his  fortune  if 
I  had  him,  • 

Vanq.    I  will  be  his  deaf  man.    I  should  like  to  see  any  one 

who  can  beat  me  at  that.  {^Advances  and  touches  Mr.  Murchso's 
shoulder;  bows  very  obsequiously.  Mr.  Murchso,  on  seeing  the  stranger, 
rises.) 

Vanq.  (speaks).  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Mr. 
Murchso  ] 

Murchso.    A  little  loudei-,  if  you  please  ! 

Vanq.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  you  will  have  to  speak  very 
distinctly  or  I  cannot  hear  you.  (He  places  his  hand  to  his  ear  as 
he  speaks.) 

Murchso  (very  loud).  Are  you  deaf  1  (Also  places  his  hand  to 
his  ear). 

Vanq.  I  see  you  move  your  lips,  so  I  know  you  are  speak- 
ing, but  I  do  not  hear  jon.     (Very  loud.) 

Murchso.  (natural  voice).  Ah,  heaven,  what  happiness  !  he  is 
more  deaf  than  I.      (Yelling.)      Who  are  you  ? 

Vanq.  (perfect  yell).  My  name  is  Major  Joseph  Vanqueleur,  — 
a  gentleman  of  means  and  leisure,  —  making  a  pedestrian  tour 
for  my  health.  I  lost  my  hearing  by  the  wind  of  a  cannon- 
ball  in  battle. 

Murchso  (natural voice).  Ah,  happiness  supreme!  His  or- 
ganism is  damaged ;  he  is  incurable.  Decidedly,  Heaven 
sends  me  this  man.      (Shouts.)     Listen  to  me. 

Vanq.  (shouts).  I  will  try  (natural  voice),  if  1  do  not  find  you 
blasting  out  the  drums  of  my  ears  at  that  rate. 

Murchso.    Are  you  a  bachelor  ] 

Vanq.    Yes ! 

Murchso  (natural  voice) .  I  think  he  said  yes.  0,  he  must 
have  said  yes.  It  would  be  too  cruel  in  fortune  to  send  me 
so  deaf  a  man  who  already  had  a  wife,  (Shouts.)  I  think  you 
said  you  were  unmarried  1 

Vanqueleub  nods  in  reply. 


164  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

M.VRCE.SO  (natural  voice).  Good!  good!  good  again!  excellent! 
{Shouts.)     Now  listen  to  me. 

VanQ.  {natural  voice).      As  if  I  COuld  help  it. 

MuRCHSO.  I  propose  to  offer  to  you  the  hand  of  my  daughter. 
I  do  not  know  if  you  will  please  her.  When  I  look  at  you  I 
rather  think  you  will  not ;  but  you  please  me  ;  that  is  the 
main  thing.     Why,  do  you  suppose  ] 

Vanqueleur  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  shakes  his  head. 

MuRCHSO.  You  might  be  young,  rich,  handsome,  and  still 
you  should  not  have  my  daughter.  But  without  being  either 
you  shall.     Why,  then  *? 

Vanq.    Give  it  up  ! 

MuRCHSO.  Because  you  are  deaf.  You  wonder  at  that  1  I 
will  tell  you  why.  You  may  not  have  noticed  it,  but  I  am  a 
little  hard  of  hearing  myself  Suppose  my  daughter  marries 
a  man  who  hears  perfectly,  what  will,  be  my  position  1  The 
tone  of  family  conversation  will  be  such  as  never  will  reach 
my  ears.  I  shall  either  be  shut  out  completely  from  all 
domestic  intercourse,  or  be  compelled  every  minute  to  say, 
"Eh  !  what  is  iti"  That  would  be  tiresome.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  my  daughter  marries  a  man  whose  hearing  is  as 
defective  as  mine,  —  and  yours  is  even  worse,  —  the  family 
conversation  will  be  caiTied  on  in  a  tone  which  will  reach 
my  ears  naturally,  and  without  an  effort :  I  shall  be  perfectly 
at  home.    Do  you  see  1 

Vanq.  {aside).  The  sublime  egotism  of  this  old  assassin 
makes  him  superb.      {While  saying  this,  he  nods  acquiescence.) 

MuRCHSo.  You  shall  dine  with  me,  and  at  dinner  I  will 
introduce  you  to  your  future  wife. 

Vanq.    You  are  very  kind,  but  — 

MuRCHSO.  Before  dinner  you  will  wish  to  remedy  the  dis- 
order of  travel  in  your  toilet.  You  can  do  so  in  my  room. 
Afterwards,  if  you  choose  to  stroll  around  the  grounds,  I  will 
beg  you  to  excuse  me,  as  I  have  a  letter  or  two  to  write.  I 
will  have  you  called  when  dinner  is  ready. 

Vanq.  {bowing.  Aside).  Now  may  impudence  befriend 
me  !  [Exeunt  both,  Murchso  showing  the  way. 


EH  !    WHAT   IS   IT  ?  165 

Enter  Charles  Ford  and  Clara. 

Clara.  Charles,  I  don't  know  what  my  father  means  by 
going  on  in  this  way. 

Charles.    Eh  !  how  is  that  1 

Clara.  0,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  say  Eh  !  Anything  in 
the  world  but  that !  (Stops  her  ears.)  I  would  rather  you  would 
shoot  at  me  than  do  that. 

Charles.  Well,  Clara,  I  will  not  do  it  again,  but  I  was 
thinking  of  the  future,  and  my  mind  did  not  readily  come 
back  from  the  golden  land  of  hope. 

Clara.  Hope !  What  hope  have  we  got  1  You  know  it 
will  soon  be  winter,  and  we  cannot  then  meet  at  the  summer- 
bouse,  so  what  shall  we  do  ] 

Charles  shakes  his  head  in  despair. 

Clara.  Well,  listen  to  me.  0  dear  !  there 's  another  of 
pa's  sayings.  They  drive  me  crazy,  yet  I  find  myself  using 
them.  But  see  here,  I  have  a  notion  of  trying  to  get  you 
into  the  house  ofteuer  by  resorting  to  a  little  stratagem. 

Charles.  Then  in  one  of  two  ways  I  die.  Either  your 
father  sacrifices  me,  or  I  kill  myself  trying  to  talk  to  him. 

Clara.  Now,  Charley,  be  serious.  Talking  to  him  has  not 
killed  me.  Several  times  recently  I  have  heard  him  say,  — 
for  you  know  as  I  have  told  you,  he  has  the  most  aggravating 
way  of  thinking  aloud,  —  "If  I  only  had  a  deaf  man,  a  very 
deaf  man,  —  if  fortune  would  only  send  me  such  a  one."  I 
don't  know  what  he  wants  with  one,  but  I  propose  to  find 
out.     You  shall  be  his  deaf  man. 

Charles.  But  I  am  not  deaf,  and  you  see  it  is  a  deaf  one 
whom  he  wants. 

Clara,    But  can  you  not  pretend  to  be  1 

Charles.    I  might ;  but  would  it  be  fair  1 

Clara.  Of  course  it  would  ;  but  you  must  be  on  your  guard 
and  not  forget  yourself  But  hark !  I  hear  father  coming. 
I  will  introduce  you  as  a  deaf  man. 

Enter  Mb.  Murchso,   holdincj  a  hdter  which  he  has  just  written,  and  so 
engaged  that  he  does  not  see  any  one  in  the  room. 

Clara  (touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  shouts).  Here  is  a  gentleman 
to  see  you. 


166  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

MURCHSO  {turns  and  sees  Cha'rl.bs  bowing  gravely).  Do  you  wish 
to  see  me  1 

Charles  stares  at  him  by  way  of  answer. 

Clara.    He  says  he  is  deaf. 

MuRCHSO.  Eh !  What  1  No,  no,  I  have  seen  that  face 
before.  He  came  here  sometimes  to  see  you,  and  is  not  deaf 
at  all. 

Clara  (to  Charles).  Father  says  that  he  does  not  believe 
you  are  deaf. 

Charles.  0  yes,  —  0  yes ;  unfortunately,  the  kick  of  a 
horse  has  injured  my  hearing  beyond  recovery. 

MuRCHSO.   Eh  !    What  is  it  1 

Charles  (shouts).  The  kick  of  a  horse  has  almost  deprived 
me  of  hearing. 

MuRCHSO  (nods.  Natural  voice).  If  it  were  really  so,  he 
would  do  as  well  as  the  other,  and  I  have  no  doubt  would 
please  my  daughter  better.  I  might  as  well  humor  her  a  little 
if  I  can.  But  it  cannot  be.  A  cannon  would  of  course 
destroy  one's  hearing  more  effectually  than  a  horse  could. 
This  fellow  would  get  well.  That  would  never  do.  Still  I 
must  not  send  him  off  too  abruptly.  Clara  might  retaliate 
by  being  obstinate  about  the  other. 

Clara  and  Charles  (to  each  other).  Who  is  the  other?  (Van- 
QDELEUR  appears  at  the  door  listening.) 

MuRCHso.    I  am  sorry,   sir,  to  learn  of  your  misfortunes 

(In  ordinary  tone. ) 

Charles.    A  little  louder,  if  you  please.    I  am  quite  deaf. 

Vanq.  (aside).  Ha !  a  nice  little  trick,  I  believe,  they  are 
plajnng  on  papa.     Lucky  that  I  know  my  ground. 

MuRCHSO.  I  said  I  was  sorry  for  your  misfortune.  ( Very 
loud. ) 

Charles  (shouts).     It  is,  indeed,  a  very  warm  day. 

MuRCHSO.  You  do  not  understand  me.  I  am  sozTy  you 
are  deaf. 

Charles.  Thank  you.  I  accept  your  invitation  with 
pleasure. 

MuRCHSO  (shouts).     How  long  have  you  been  deaf? 


EH  !     WHAT   IS   IT  ?  167 

Charles.    Only  about  two  months. 

MuRCHSO  {natural  voice).  Confound  this  fellow  !  He  thinks 
I  asked  him  to  dinner.  Well,  I  rather  like  that  idea.  He 
and  the  other  are  both  more  deaf  than  I,  so  I  shall  be  in  an 
excellent  position.  I  shall  hear  eveiything  naturally,  without 
any  trouble.     Yes ;  decidedly  he  shall  dine  with  me. 

Enter  Vanqueleur. 

MuRCHSO  [sees  him,  shouts).  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back 
in  good  time  for  an  introduction  to  my  daughter  before  din- 
ner. Clara,  my  child,  I  present  you  to  your  future  husband, 
Major  —  {In  loio  tone.)  Confound  his  name,  I  have  forgotten 
it.  Never  mind.  He  has  to  some  extent  the  same  aiSictiou 
as  myself;  but  you  are  so  used  to  it  that  you  will  not  mind 
that. 

Vanq.  {aside).  I  don't  know  about  that  arrangement.  My 
price  will  be  high  if  I  sell  out  to  this  firm. 

MuRCHSO  {turns  to  introduce  Charles,  looks  inquiringly  to  Clara, 
who  says  "Ford").  Mr.  Ford,  Major  —  {Low.)  I  don't  remember 
his  confounded  name.      (Vanqdeleur  and  Charles  how  stiffly.) 

Charles  {to  Clara  in  an  undertone).  So  this  Kobert-Macaire- 
looking  fellow  is  the  "  other." 

Clara  {to  Charles).  A  wretch  who  says  Eh  !  also.  Heaven 
forbid!  What  a  rascally-looking  "other"  he  is !  0,  it  can- 
not be  !  It  is  only  a  test  of  your  hearing.  The  idea  of  such 
a  scarecrow  ! 

MuRCHSO  {rings  a  hell.  Enter  a  Servant).  Have  the  table  laid 
for  four  instead  of  three.  {Serykst  nods  and  goes  out.)  That 
fellow,  who  is  only  a  servant,  can  hear  everything. 

Vanq.  {to  Clara).  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
once  before. 

Clara.  I  am  sorry  you  do  again,  you  villanous-looking 
old  fellow  ! 

Vanq.  A  little  louder,  if  you  please.  (J^n^er  a  Servant,  !y/(o 
touches  Mr.  Murchso  and  shouts.)  A  gentleman  in  the  drawing- 
room  wishes  to  see  you. 

Murchso.  Excuse  me  a  moment.  {Leaves  the  room.  Clara 
takes  up  work  from  the  table.) 


168  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Vanq.  I  have  never  so  deeply  regretted  my  affliction  as  at 
this  moment,  since  it  robs  me  of  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your 
natural  voice,  which  I  am  sure  must  be  all  of  melody.  {She 
looks  tip;  he  goes  on.)  Happily,  nature  makes  ameuds  for  so 
great  a  misfortune  by  rendering  the  other  senses  more  acute. 
I  cannot  hear  your  sweet  voice,  but  I  feel  from  the  motion 
of  your  lips  I  can  read  the  words  you  utter.  Try,  my  dear 
young  lady,  —  try  if  the  magic  of  your  speech  will  not  cause 
the  poor  deaf  man  to  hear. 

Clara.    Do  you  really  think  so  1 

Vanq.  There  !  you  said,  "Do  you  really  think  so,"  did  you 
noti 

Clara.    Yes. 

Vanq.  There  !  and  again  you  said,  "  Yes."  Ah  !  I  cannot 
hear  others,  but  I  can  hear  you.  They  speak  to  my  ears,  but 
you  to  my  heart. 

Charles.  And  I  shall  punctuate  by  punching  your  head 
pretty  soon. 

Clara.  No,  no ;  not  for  the  world,  Charles.  You  would 
betray  that  you  can  hear,  and  then  all  would  be  lost.  But  I 
begin  to  fear  that  my  father  was  in  earnest,  or  this  horrible 
creature  would  not  talk  so  to  me. 

Charles.  Then  your  father  is  crazy  as  well  as  deaf !  The 
idea  of  his  marrying  you  to  this  thing,  robbed,  body  and  rai- 
ment, from  a  dozen  graves.  Who  is  he  1  Where  did  he  come 
from  1     I  've  a  notion  to  — 

Vanq.  As  I  told  you  once  before,  I  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you.  I  did  not  then  know  the  happiness  in  store  for 
me ;  yet  it  was  but  a  short  time  since,  —  less  than  half  an 
hour  ago,  —  in  the  garden. 

Clara  (echoes).     In  the  garden] 

Vanq.  Thei-e  !  you  said  again,  "  In  the  garden."  You  see 
I  understand  the  motion  of  your  lips.  It  was  at  the  time 
you  met  this  young  gentleman  1  saw  you  from  the  open 
window. 

Charles  (aside).     The  dickens  ! 

Vanq.    It  shows  me  that  you  have  a  kind  heart  to  take  so 


EH  !    WHAT   IS   IT  ?  169 

much  interest  m  one  who  suffers  from  my  own.  great  afflic- 
tion. You  possibly  even  think  that  you  love  this  young 
person  now,  but  it  is  only  sympathy  which  you  feel  for  him. 
A  woman  of  the  world  would  see  that  he  is  gawky,  self-con- 
ceited, and  stupid  ;  but  you  do  not.  I  admire  all  the  more 
the  innocent  freshness  of  your  heart. 

Charles  (aside).  0  great  heavens  !  I  shall  have  to  brain 
this  fellow. 

Clara  (aside).     Hush,  hush  ! 

Vanq.  I  thought  you  said,  "  Hush,"  but  was  not  sure.  Yes, 
you  are  right,  but  he  did  not  hear  me.  Poor  young  man  ! 
you  are  indeed  to  be  pitied.  Fortune  was  cruelly  unkind  in 
robbing  you  of  one  of  your  senses.  You  so  much  needed 
them  all  to  get  through  life. 

Chakles  groans. 

Clara  (shouts).  Allow  me,  gentlemen,  to  show  you  the  gar- 
den while  waiting  for  dinner.  (Places  herself  between  them  and 
leads  them  out.) 

Mr.  Muechso  enters  from  the  opposite  door. 

MuRCHSO.  Ah  !  joy,  joy  !  I  can  hear,  I  can  hear  !  That 
great  doctor,  that  good  doctor !  He  has  saved  me  !  Justly  is 
he  celebrated  !  When  I  had  given  up  hope,  and  thought  he 
was  never  coming,  he  came  like  an  angel  and  in  five  minutes 
caused  me  to  hear.  My  cavities  were  obstructed  after  all,  but 
the  organism  was  right ;  and  now  —  now  I  can  hear  natural 
voices,  music,  birds,  everything.  I  can  hear,  I  can  hear ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  doubly  terrible  to  ha_ye  been  deaf  Deaf ! 
Ah  !  that  reminds  me  I  have  two  deaf  men  to  dinner  to-day. 
If  that  good  doctor  could  only  have  remained  I  might  have 
talked  with  him ;  but  to  sit  and  howl  for  an  hour  into  the 
obstructed  cavities  of  two  deaf  wretches,  —  0,  it  is  abomina- 
ble !  And  to  tliink  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  my 
daughter  to  one  of  those  monsters.  I  shudder  when  I  think 
that  in  one  week  more  I  would  have  had  a  deaf  son-in-law ;  a 
fellow  who  would  be  eternally  ejaculating,  ''Eh  !  what  is  it  V 
0,  that  would  be  terrible  !  Well,  but  how  am  I  to  get  rid  of 
8 


170  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

him  1     Yes,  and  of  that  other  one,  whom  I  believe  my  daugh- 
ter fancies  in  spite  of  his  horrid  defect  ] 

Enter  Chaeles  and  Clara,  talking  together  as  they  enter. 

Clara.  Now,  Charles,  do  control  yourself  I  know  he  is  an 
aggravating  wretch  ;  but  you  must  not  betray  that  you  hear 
him,  or  he  will  surely  tell  father,  and  he  would  be  furious  to 
learn  how  we  had  cheated  him. 

Charles.  If  that  fellow  really  knew  that  I  am  not  deaf  at 
all  and  were  trying  to  drive  me  wild,  he  could  not  say  more 
than  he  does. 

MuRCHSO  (aside).  And  this  is  my  fine  fellow  who  suffered 
by  a  horse. 

Chaeles  calls  attention  to  Me.  Muechso,  sitting  'near  the  table. 

Clara.    No  matter,  he  cannot  hear  us. 

Charles.  What  a  soulless  old  ruffian  your  father  must  be, 
to  think  of  marrying  you  to  such  a  scoundrel  I 

Clara.  Be  quiet  a  little  while,  and  I  '11  manage  it.  You 
must  fool  papa,  and  I  will  find  some  way  of  sending  off  that 
protege  of  his  with  a  flea  in  his  ear.  Him  for  a  husband, 
indeed  !     I  'd  run  away  with  you  first. 

Charles.  The  idea  of  your  going  through  life  with  a  speak- 
ing-trumpet in  each  hand  and  a  svuroundiug  chorus  of  "  Eh  ! 
what  is  it  1 " 

Clara.  0  dear,  I  'd  die  first.  One  is  bad  enough,  even  if 
he  is  my  father ;  but  two  !  0  no.  But  there  comes  that 
wretch  now.  I  am  afraid  to  have  you  stay  here.  Go  into 
the  other  room  till  you  are  called  for  dinner.  That  will  be 
soon.  Do  not  come  when  the  bell  rings,  for  papa  may  be 
watching  to  see  if  you  hear  it.     I  will  come  for  you. 

Murchso  {aside).  How  horribly  cunning  this  little  minx 
has  become  ! 

Charles  (as  he  goes  out).  I'd  like  to  knock  their  heads  to- 
gether. 

Enter  Majoe  Vanqdeleub. 

Clara.    Have  you  had  a  pleasant  walk  in  the  garden  1 
Vanq.    Veri/.     Is  it  not  strange  that  I  understand  almost 


EH  !    WHAT   IS   IT  ?  171 

eveiy  word  you  utter  1  {C-lkrk  looks  at  him,,then  at  her  father.)  0 
no,  I  hear  him  no  more  than  he  hears  me.  By  the  way,  par- 
don my  abrupt  question,  —  but  are  you  very  much  attached 
to  that  guileless  youth  whom  I  met  as  I  was  coming  in  1 

Clara.  Sir  !  {Indignantly.)  You  have  no  right  to  ask  me 
such  a  question.     It  is  impertinent  from  you. 

Vanq.  Not  at  all.  I  have  the  right  of  your  prospective 
husband. 

Clara.  You  never  will  be  my  husband.  I  'd  kill  myself,  — 
or,  rather,  I  'd  kill  you  first. 

Vaxq.    Would  you  %     Indeed  !     You  are  getting  violent. 
Do  not  excite  yourself 

Clara.  Why  do  you  persecute  me  %  I  can  never  marry 
you.     I  hate  you. 

Vanq.  That  is  very  probable.  But  you  ask  me  why.  I 
will  tell  you.  For  a  poor  deaf  man,  a  covifortable  home  ;  for 
ineans  to  gratify  his  taste  for  little  luxuries  his  present  con- 
dition will  not  afford.     These  are  of  great  importance  to  me. 

Clara.  Clearly,  then,  you  only  wish  to  marry  me  for  what 
papa  will  give  you  with  me  ? 

Vanq.  That  is  not  an  unimportant  consideration  when 
one  gets  a  father-in-law  who  is  such  a  terrible  nuisance  and 
a  selfish  old  dunderhead  to  boot. 

Clara.  Do  not  abuse  my  father,  sir ;  I  think  we  can  ar- 
range this  matter  without  that.  How  much  money  will  you 
take  and  go  away  and  never  come  back,  nor  let  me  see  your 
ugly  face  again  1 

Vaxq.  In  a  pecuniary  estimate  please  to  remember  that 
my  heart  understands  everything  you  say,  and  you  alone ; 
and  that  is  a  great  deal  to  a  poor  deaf  man.  I  know  almost 
all  you  say. 

Clara.  I  think  sometimes  you  understand  all ;  that  your 
heart,  as  you  call  it,  hears  everything  you  choose  from  every- 
body. 

Vaxq.  A  while  ago  I  said  you  were  inexperienced,  un- 
sophisticated. I  retract  that  injurious  expression.  Your 
perceptive  faculties  do  you  honor. 


172  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Clara.    Then  you  admit  that  you  do  hear  everything'? 

Vanq.  I  beheve  that  we  all  hear  alike  well,  except  your 
unfortunate  father,  my  prospective  father-in-law. 

MuRCHSO.   And   I  hear,  too,  you scoundrel,  and  I  '11 

see  you  hanged  first !  (Vanqueleur  retreats  to  the  other  side  of  the 
table. ) 

Clara.    0  father  !     You  hear  1 

MuRCHSO.    Yes,  I   hear.      You  'd   run   away,  would  you  ? 

{Strides  to  the  doffr.)     Here,  you  young  rascal,  come  here  ! 

Charles  appears  not  to  hear  him.      Mr.  Mprchso  snatches  a  book  from 
the  table,  and  throws  it  at  him. 

Charles  (tuminq  round).  Eh  !   what  is  \t% 

MuRCHSO  (grasping  him   by  the   collar,    and    violently  shaking  him). 
If  you  ever  say  that  again  I  '11  murder  you  ! 
Clara,    0  father,  don't  hurt  him  ! 
Charles  (to  Clara).     What   the  deuce  does  he  mean  by 

shaking  me  so  1 

Vanqueleur  groans. 

MuRCHSO.  It  means  that  I  have  regained  my  hearing,  in 
order  to  learn  that  I  am  a  soulless  old  ruffian  and  you  would 
like  to  knock  my  head  against  somebody  else's. 

Charles.  Yes,  I  said  so ;  and  I  '11  stick  to  it  if  you  persist 
in  marrying  your  daughter  to  this  deaf  old  curmudgeon 
against  all  her  wishes  to  the  contrary. 

MuRCHSO.  Spoken  like  a  man,  and  I  respect  you  the  more 
for  saying  it,  for  I  believe  you  are  about  right.  {Looking  at 
Vanqueleur.)  As  for  this  fellow,  I  forgot  him  for  the  moment, 
I  was  so  mad  with  you.      {Starts  for  Vanqueleur.) 

Vanq.  Excuse  me,  but  I  think  there  is  a  mistake  some- 
where. 

MuRCHSO.  0,  there  is  a  mistake,  is  there  1  Do  you  know 
who  I  am  ]  I  'm  a  selfish  old  dunderhead,  and  I  am  going 
to  prove  a  temble  nuisance  to  you.  Do  you  hear  1  {Runs 
after  Vanqueleur.) 

Vanq.  Hold  on  a  moment.  Let 's  reason  this  thing  out. 
We  can't  talk  at  this  rate,  you  know. 

MuRCHSO.    Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say  1 


EH  !    WHAT   IS   IT  ?  173 

Vanq.  Just  this.  Were  not  my  expressions  correct  1  Now 
that  you  can  bear  again,  I  see  that  you  don't  lilie  a  man  to 
say  to  you,  "  Eh  !  what  is  it  I "  You  can  imagine  what  a  nui- 
sance you  were,  and  then  just  think  of  bringing  into  your 
family  another  such  creature,  and  a  mere  adventurer  to  boot, 
merely  to  humor  yoiu-  fancies. 

MuRCHSO.  My  dear  sir,  I  forgive  you  ;  I  did  deserve  it  all. 
(Takes  Vaxqueleur  by  the  hand,  turns  to  Charles.)  And  you  I  also 
forgive.      (Takes  Charles  bij  the  hand.) 

Charles  (to  Vanqueledr).  But  see  here,  sir ;  you  and  I 
have  a  little  account  to  settle  yet. 

Vanq.  Who  began  between  us  1  Is  it  my  fault  that  I 
look  like  a  thing  robbed,  body  and  raiment,  from  a  dozen 
gi-aves  1 

Charles,    Let  us  shake  hands  and  cry  quits. 

Vanq.  And  now  permit  me  to  doff  my  borrowed  plumes  as 
Major  Joseph  Vanqueleur,  and  introduce  myself  to  you  as 
plain  Gus  Wight,  who  has  seen  better  days,  and  is  better 
known  as  Clai'ence  Fitzherbert  Booth  Macready,  dramatic 
reader  and  teacher  of  elocution.  I  propose  giving  an  enter- 
tainment next  week  in  the  public  hall,  and  shall  feel  highly 
honored  if  you  will  give  your  attendance  and  countenance  on 
that  occasion. 

MuRCHSO.    You  may  depend  upon  us.      After  dinner  we 

will  —       (The  bell  rings  violentli/  for  dinner.) 

MuRCHSO.  Heavens  !  what  an  infernal  uproar  !  Stop  that 
bell,  stop  it ! 

Vanq.    Silence  that  dreadful  bell ! 

Servant  pokes  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  with  hand  to  ear  says :  — 

Servant.    Eh  !   what  is  it  1 

Murchso  charges  fiercely  upon  him,  and  the  rest  follow,  laughing. 


174  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 

SCENE   FROM   "STILL   WATERS  RUN  DEEP." 

Hawkslet  ;  MiLDMAT ;  Servant. 

Hawkslet  sealed  at  a  small  table,  with  papers  before  him.    Enter  a  Servant. 

SERVANT.   Mr.  Mildmay. 
Hawksley.    Bravissirao  !     Here,  bring  this  table  down 
from  the  fire. 

The  Servant  moves  writing-table  fonvard,  and  places  easy-chair  beside  it. 
Now  show  him  in.     {Sits  by  the  table.) 

Exit  Servant,  who  re-enteis  immediately,  showing  in  Mildmay.  Exit 
Servant.  Hawkslet  pretends  to  be  absorbed  in  his  writing,  and  leaves 
Mildmay,  upon  his  entrance,  standing. 

H.  (looking  up).  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  fellow  !  One 
gets  so  absorbed  in  these  cursed  figures.  Take  a  chair. 
You  '11  allow  me  to  finish  what  I  was  about. 

Mildmay.    Don't  mind  me.     I  'm  in  no  hurry. 

H.  (after  a  minute  of  pretended  work).  By  the  way,  if  you  '11  look 
on  that  table  you  '11  find  a  plan  of  our  Inexplosible  Galvanic 
Boat  somewhere.  Just  glance  your  eye  over  it,  while  I  knock 
oflF  this  calculation ;  it  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  ma- 
chinery. 

Mildmay  approaches  table  and  takes  up  a  plan,  and,  while  pretending  to 
look  at  it,  surveys  the  I'oom,  etc. 

H.  (putting  away  his  papers,  and  rising).  And  now,  my  dear  Mild- 
may, I  'm  at  your  service.  But,  before  we  come  to  business, 
how  are  all  at  Brompton  1     The  ladies  all  well  1 

M.    Mrs.  Sternhold  's  a  little  out  of  sorts  this  morning, 

H.   Ah  !    Had  a  bad  night  1 

M.    I  should  think  so. 

H.  (at  table).  Well,  I  had  a  note  from  Potter.  He  tells  me 
you  had  some  thoughts  of  taking  shares  in  our  Galvauics. 
Ever  done  much  in  that  sort  of  thing  ] 

M.    No,  not  yet. 

H.  I  fancied  not,  by  the  style  in  which  you  seem  to  have 
talked  of  getting  shares,  as  if  you  thought  they  could  be  had 
for  asking.     You  see  there  's  been  such  a  run  on  'em,  that 


SCENE   FROM    "STILL   WATERS   RUN   DEEP."  175 

■we  've  had  twice  as  many  applied  for  as  could  be  allotted.  But 
there  may  be  a  few  in  the  market  still.  Another  week,  and 
you  'd  not  have  had  a  chance.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well, 
though,  before  you  connect  yourself  with  it,  that  I  should  give 
you,  briefly,  an  idea  of  our  scheme,  our  means  of  carrying  it 
out,  and  its  probable  results.     (Crosses  to  r.  c.) 

M.    If  you  would  be  so  kind. 

H.  Fetch  yourself  a  chair,  then.  [They  sit.)  Steam,  it  has 
been  often  remarked,  is  yet  in  its  infancy  ;  galvanism,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  comparison,  is  unborn.  0\ir  company  proposes 
to  play  midwife  to  this  mysterious  power,  which,  like  Hercules, 
is  destined  to  strangle  steam  in  the  cradle.  But,  to  do  this 
effectually,  is  the  work  of  no  mere  every-day  speculator.  We 
require  a  plan  of  operations  calculated  on  a  solid  and  com- 
prehensive basis.     You  follow  me  ] 

M.  A  solid  and  comprehensive  basis?  I  suppose  that 
means  a  good  lot  of  money. 

H.  Precisely.  Money  is  the  sinews  of  industry  as  of  war. 
Now,  to  anticipate  events  a  little,  let  us  throw  ourselves  into 
the  future,  and  imagine  our  company  at  work.  We  have 
created  between  the  ports  of  the  West  of  Ireland  and  the 
United  States,  Mexico,  the  West  India  Islands,  and  Brazil,  a 
line  of  Galvanic  Boats,  —  rapid,  economical,  safe,  and  regular. 
For  rapidity,  we  can  give  four  knots  an  hour  to  the  fastest 
steamer  yet  built.  As  for  safety,  our  Galvanic  engines  can't 
blow  up. 

M.  But  suppose  the  company  should  ?  Companies  do  blow 
up  sometirnes,  don't  they  1 

H.  Bubbles  do,  but  not  such  companies  as  this.  But,  to 
resume  :  economy  we  insure  by  getting  rid  of  coal  alto- 
gether. 

M.  Get  rid  of  coal !  Do  you  really  1  And  pray,  what  do 
you  use  instead  1 

H.  Our  new  motive  principle.  That  is  otir  secret  at  pres- 
ent. But  you  will  at  once  perceive,  as  an  intelligent  man  of 
business,  the  incalculable  consequences  that  must  follow  from 
the  employment  of  a  new  motive  principle  which  combines 


176  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

the  essential  qualities  of  a  motive  principle,  —  the  maximum 
of  speed,  and  the  minimum  of  cost.  (Mildmat  bows.)  You 
see  there  are  three  things  to  be  considered,  —  the  article, 
the  duty,  and  the  cost  of  carriage.  The  two  former  being 
fixed,  let  us  represent  them  by  A  and  B.  You  understand 
algebra  ] 

M.    I  used  to  know  a  little  of  it  at  school. 

H.    Then  let  X  and  —  denote  the  respective  cost  of  the  two 

modes  of  carriage,  while  the  two  rates  of  profit  are  rep- 
resented by  Y  and  Y\ 

M.  Which,  in  algebra,  always  denote  an  unknown  quan- 
tity. 

H.    Precisely.     Well,  A  and  B   remaining    constant,  let 

Y  =  A  plus  ^  be  the  formula  for  profit  in  the  case  of  steam, 

then  Y^^  A  plus  —  divided  by  2,   will  be  the   formula  for 

profit  in  the  case  of  galvanic  transport ;  or,  reducing  the  equa- 
tions, Y^  =  2  Y,  or,  in  plain  English,  the  profit  on  galvanic 
transport  equal  to  twice  the  profit  on  steam  carriage.  I  hope 
that  's  clear. 

M.  Perfectly ;  only,  as  you  began  by  assuming  the  cost  of 
the  fii'st  at  only  half  that  of  the  second,  I  don't  see  what 
need  there  was  of  any  algebra  to  prove  the  profit  double. 

H.  Ah  !  Why,  you  see,  some  people  apprehend  a  thing 
more  clearly  in  symbols.  However,  to  return  to  our  plan  of 
operations.  You  observe  we  start  from  a  port  in  the  west 
of  Ireland ;  by  this  means  we  gain  six  days  on  Liverpool, 
Bristol,  and  the  western  ports  of  England.  At  one  blow  we 
destroy  Liverpool. 

M.    The  devil  you  do  !     I  've  property  in  LiverpooL 

H.    Next,  we  destroy  Bristol. 

M.    Destroy  Bristol  too  ! 

H.  That  is,  when  I  say  destroy,  we  reduce  her  to  a  second- 
rate  port.  She  will  still  have  the  coasting  and  fruit  trade, 
and  may  do  a  little  in  turtle.     We  destroy  Hull  — 


SCENE  FROM    "STILL   WATEKS  RUN  DEEP."  177 

M.  But  stop,  stop,  stop !  You  're  going  to  desti'oy  every- 
thing. 

H.  My  dear  fellow,  it  's  the  law  of  the  universe.  If,  by 
our  line,  we  can  introduce  West  Indian  sugar  into  the  market 
at  two  thirds  the  price  of  East  Indian,  are  we  to  hesitate  be- 
cause Ceylon  may  be  ruined  ] 

M.  Of  course  not.  I  suppose  that  would  be  what  the  polit- 
ical economists  call  sentimentalism. 

H.  Precisely.  If  Ceylon  is  ruined  on  these  terms,  so  much 
the  better  for  the  world  in  general. 

M.    And  so  much  the  worse  for  Ceylon  in  particular. 

H.    Just  so.     I  see  you  follow  me,  exactly. 

M.    Only  I  was  thinking  — 

H.  Pray  speak  out.  The  suggestions  of  a  new,  fresh  mind 
are  invaluable.     You  were  thinking  — 

M.  That,  as  the  general  interest  is  made  vip  of  particular 
interests,  if  you  destroy  the  particular  interests,  perhaps  tlie 
general  interest  may  not  be  so  much  benefited  after  all. 

H.    Ah  !  there  you  get  into  an  abstruse  field  of  speculation. 

M.    Do  II     It  seems  clear  enough  to  me.     {Both  rise.) 

H.    That  's  because  you  take  a  shallow  view  of  the  subject. 

M.    One  I  can  see  to  the  bottom  of,  in  fact ! 

H.  Precisely.  A  man  of  your  calibre  should  always  dis- 
trust what  he  can  see  to  the  bottom  of 

M.  I  generally  do.  Well,  after  your  very  lucid  demon- 
stration, I  see  your  company  cannot  fail  of  success.  The  more 
shares  a  man  has,  the  more  lucky  he  should  think  himself. 
(  Goes  up  to  table  and  puts  down  his  hat.) 

H.  (aside).  Hooked,  played,  and  landed  !  {Pretending  to  look  on 
table  for  note.)  I've  mislaid  Potter's  note;  but  he  mentioned 
your  wanting  something  like  two  hundred  shares,  was  n't  it  ] 

M.    I  beg  your  pardon,  —  not  exactly,  —  I  think  — 

H.  Why,  was  n't  that  the  figure  you  put  it  at  yourself  last 
night  ? 

M.    Last  night,  —  yes. 

H.    You  have  n't  changed  your  mind  1 

M.    No. 

8» 


178  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

H.  Then  let  us  understand  each  other.  Do  you  want  more 
than  two  hundred,  or  fewer  1 

M.    Neither  more  nor  fewer. 

H.    What  do  you  mean  1 

M.    I  mean,  I  don't  want  any  at  all, 

H.  (starting  with  surprise).  The  dev —  (Recovering  himself!)  Oh! 
I  suppose  you  've  slept  on  it. 

M.    Exactly  !     I  've  slept  on  it. 

H.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Sternhold's  advice  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  your  sudden  change  of  intentions. 

M.  Mrs.  Sternhold  knows  nothing  about  my  sudden  change 
of  intentions. 

H.    I  must  satisfy  myself  on  that  point.  (Comes  in  fiont  of  table.) 

M.    Do,  by  all  means,  if  it  interests  you. 

H.  (sitting  on  corner  of  table).     Well,     aS    you     don't    know    yoUT 

own  mind  for  four-and-twenty  hours  together,  there  's  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said.  But  as  you  don't  want  these  shares, 
may  I  ask  what  has  procured  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
this  morning] 

M.  Certainly.  I  had  two  objects  in  coming.  In  the  first 
place,  about  two  months  ago,  my  father-in-law,  Mr.  Potter, 
took  twenty  shares  in  your  company.  Those  shares  have 
come  into  my  hands  this  morning  by  Mr.  Potter's  indorse- 
ment. Now,  as  I  don't  care  about  'em  myself,  and  as  there 
seems  such  a  rush  for  'em  in  the  market,  I  suppose  you  '11 
have  no  objection  to  take  them  off  my  hands  at  par. 

H.  Eh  1  Take  them  off  your  hands  at  par  1  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
No  !  By  Jove,  that  's  rather  too  good  !  My  dear  Mr.  Mild- 
may,  I  know  you  're  the  most  amiable  of  men,  —  a  consum- 
mate cultivator  of  that  delicate  vegetable,  celery,  —  a  dis- 
tinguished house  painter  and  decorator,  —  but  I  had  no  idea 
how  great  you  were  at  a  practical  joke. 

M.  Very  well.  We  '11  drop  the  shares  for  the  present,  and 
come  to  motive  number  two. 

H.  Pray  do ;  and  if  it  's  better  fun  than  motive  number 
one,  I  shall  have  to  thank  you  for  two  of  the  heartiest  laughs 
I  've  enjoyed  for  many  a  day. 


SCENE  FROM   "STILL   WATERS  RUN  DEEP."  179 

M.  We  shall  see.  You  have  in  your  possession  thirteen 
letters  addressed  to  you  by  Mrs.  Sternhold,  The  second 
motive  for  my  visit  was  to  ask  you  to  give  up  those  letters. 

H.  (aside).  So  !  tne  murder's  out !  She  prefers  war.  She 
shall  have  it  !  (Aloud.)  Mr.  John  Mildmay,  your  first  demand 
was  a  good  joke  ;  I  laughed  at  it  accordingly ;  but  your  sec- 
ond you  may  find  no  joke,  and  I  would  recommend  you  to  be 
carefvil  how  you  persist  in  executing  this  commission  of  Mrs. 
Sternhold's. 

•    M.    I  beg  your  pardon.     I  have  no  commission  from  Mrs. 
Sternhold. 

H.    It  was  not  she  who  told  you  of  those  letters  ? 

M.    Certainly  not. 

H.    Who  did  1 

M.    You  must  excuse  my  answering  that  question. 

H.    Then  you  are  acting  now  on  your  own  responsibility  1 

M.    Entirely. 

H.  Very  well ;  then  this  is  my  answer.  Though  you  have 
married  Mrs.  Sternhold's  niece,  I  do  not  admit  your  right 
to  interfere,  without  authority  from  Mrs.  Sternhold  herself, 
in  an  affair  in  which  she  alone  is  interested.  I  refuse  to 
give  up  her  letters.  As  to  your  first  request,  my  business  is 
to  sell  shares,  not  to  buy  them. 

M.  I  was  prepared  for  both  refusals  ;  so  I  have  taken  my 
measures  for  compelling  you  to  grant  both  demands. 

H.  You  have  !  Do  let  me  hear  what  they  are  !  I  am  all 
impatience  to  know  how  you  propose  to  make  Harry  Hawksley 
say  9/es,  when  he  has  begun  by  saying  no.  You  've  no  objec- 
tion to  smoke  1 

M.    None  in  the  world. 

Hawksley  seats  himself  comfortably  in  easy-chair,  putting  his  legs   on  an- 
other chair,  and  lights  a  cigar, 

H.    Now,  my  very  dear  sir,  fire  away  ! 

M.  (sirs;  then  in  a  very  calm  voice,  after  watching  him).  When  you 
explained  the  theory  of  your  speculation  just  now,  you 
thought  you  were  speaking  to  a  greenhorn  in  such  matters. 
You  were  under  a  mistake.     Some  four  years  ago  I  held  a 


180  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

partnership  in  a  house  in  the  city  which  did  a  good  deal  in 
discounting  shares,  —  the  house  of  Dalrymple  Brothers,  of 
Broad  Street.  You  may  have  heard  of  it.  (Hawkslet  starts.) 
One  day  —  it  was  the  30th  of  April,  1850  —  a  bill  was  pre- 
sented for  payment  at  our  counting-house,  purporting  to  be 
drawn  on  us  by  our  coiTespondents,  Touchet  and  Wright,  of 
Buenos  Ayres.  (Hawkslet  appears  uneasy .)  Though  we  had  no 
advices  of  it,  it  was  paid  at  once,  for  it  seemed  all  right  and 
regular  ;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  a  forgery.  Our  correspondents' 
suspicions  fell  at  once  upon  a  clerk  who  had  just  been  dis- 
missed from  their  employment  for  some  errors  in  his  accounts. 
His  name  then  was  Burgess  —  [Dear  me,  you  've  let  your  cigar 
go  out.  [Yi.xvis.S'L^t  puffs  at  his  cigar  with  an  effort.)]*  The  body 
of  the  bill  was  apparently  in  the  same  handwriting  as  the  sig- 
nature of  the  firm  ;  but  a  careful  examination  of  it  established 
its  identity  with  that  of  the  discharged  clerk  ;  and  in  a  blotting- 
book,  left  accidentally  behind  him,  were  found  various  tracings 
of  the  signature  of  the  firm.  The  detectives  were  at  once 
put  on  his  track,  but  he  had  disappeared ;  no  trace  of  him 
could  ever  be  discovered.  Well,  this  money  was  repaid,  and 
the  affair  forgotten.  It  so  happened  that,  when  the  bill  was 
presented  for  payment,  only  one  person  was  in  the  counting- 
house,  the  clerk  who  paid  the  money,  and  who  is  since  dead. 

—  [If  you  Tl  allow  me,  I  '11  join  you  (taking  out  cigar-case)^  — 
But  in  the  private  room  of  the  firm,  which  was  separated  from 
the  counting-house  by  a  glazed  door,  was  the  junior  partner,  — 
[May  I   trouble  you  for  alight?   (lights  his  cigar  by  B.kwk.&'le.y's,)'\ 

—  who  through  the  door  saw  the  bill  presented,  and  observed 
the  face  of  the  person  who  presented  it.  I  was  that  junior 
partner  ;  the  person  who  presented  the  bill,  —  Burgess,  as  he 
was  then  called,  —  the  forger,  was  you  I 

H.   (falls  hack  in  his  chair ;  then  with  an  effort).     It   is   an   infamous 

calumny  !  An  abominable  lie  !  Your  life  shall  answer  for 
this  insult. 

M.    I  don't  think  that,  quite.     But  allow  me  to  conclude. 
How  you  have  passed  your  time  since  that  30th  of  April,  1850, 

*  The  passages  in  brackets  may  be  omitted. 


SCENE   FROM   "STILL   WATERS   RUN  DEEP."  181 

I  have  not  the  advantage  of  knowing ;  but  I  know  that  soon 
after  my  marriage  and  retirement  from  b ashless,  I  met  you 
as  a  visitor  at  my  fxther-in-hxw's  house.  I  've  a  wonderful 
memory  for  faces ;  I  remembered  yours  at  once. 

H.    It  's  a  he,  I  tell  you  !    (Rises.) 

M.  No,  it  is  n't.  I  resolved  not  to  speak  till  I  could  back 
my  words  by  proofs.  I  applied  to  my  late  partners  for  the 
forged  bill.  One  of  them  was  dead,  the  other  absent  in  South 
America ;  so  that  for  ten  months  I  found  myself  obliged  to 
receive,  as  a  guest  at  my  own  table,  as  the  intimate  and  trusted 
friend  of  my  wife's  family,  a  person  I  knew  to  be  a  swindler 
and  a  forger. 

H.  By  heavens  !  (Aiming  a  Mow  at  Mildmat,  which  he  stops,  and 
forces  Hawksley  down  into  easy-chair.) 

M.  Take  care !  If  we  come  to  that  game,  remember  it  's 
town  versus  country  ;  a  hale  Lancashire  lad  against  a  battered 
London  roue  ;  fresh  air  and  exercise  to  smoke  and  speculation. 
You  had  better  be  quiet :  a  minute  more  and  I  have  done. 
The  letter  I  had  been  so  long  waiting  for,  containing  the 
forged  bill,  arrived  yesterday  from  Manchester.  You  were 
kind  enough  to  bring  it  out  to  Brompton  yourself  That  bill 
is  in  my  pocket ;  if  I  do  not  deliver  it  into  your  hands 
before  I  leave  the  room,  it  goes  at  once  into  those  of  the 
nearest  police  magistrate. 

H.  (after  a  pause,  gloomily).    What  are  your  terms'? 

M.  The  price  of  those  shares  at  par,  and  Mrs.  Sternhold's 
thirteen  letters. 

H.  (rises,  goes  round  table,  and  takes  notes  out  of  drawer).  Here  's  the 
money. 

M.  (at  upper  end  of  table).  You  '11  excuse  my  counting.  It 's 
a  mercantile  habit  I  learnt  in  the  house  of  Dalrymple 
Brothers.  (Counts  notes.)  Quite  correct.  Here  are  the  scrip  cer- 
tificates.   (Giving  him  shares.)   And  now,  if  you  please,  the  letters. 

H.  (taking  bundle  of  letters  from  drawer,  and  throwing  them  down  on  table) . 
There  ! 

M.  You  '11  excuse  my  counting  them  too.  (Counts  lettei-s.) 
Thirteen  exactly  !     And  now,  might   I  trespass  on  you  to 


182  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

put  them  into  an  envelope,  and  seal  them  with  your  own 
seal '2 

H.    Are  they  not  safe  enough  as  it  is  ] 

M.  Now  oblige  me.  (HAWKSLEYjoit^s  letters  into  an  envelope,  and 
is  about  to  light  taper.)  Oh!  allow  me,  —  your__hand  shakes.  (Takes 
matches  from  him,  and  lights  taper.)  I  wish  IMrs.  Sternhold  to  be 
certain  that  these  letters  have  passed  through  no  other  hands 
than  yours.  (Hawkslet  seals  the  packet,  and  hands  it  to  Mildmay.) 
And  there  is  the  forged  bill.     ( Giving  bill  to  Hawksley.) 

H.  {examines  the  bill,  then  burns  it  by  taper,  and  throws  it  to  the  ground, 
stamping  on  it.    Aside).    Gone  !     He  knows  nothing  of  the  other. 

M.   (taking  his  hat  from  the  table).     And   noW,   Captain   BurgeSS, 

—  I  mean  Hawksley,  —  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  a  very 
good  morning. 

H.  (crossing  to  him).  Stop!  A  word  before  you  go.  Since 
we  had  first  the  jDleasure  of  meeting,  I  've  been  a  soldier,  and 
have  served  in  countries  where  blood  wipes  out  disgrace. 
What  are  your  weapons  1 

M.  I  thought  it  might  come  to  that ;  but  you  need  n't 
trouble  yourself  to  call  me  out,  because  I  sha'  n't  come. 

H.  And  do  you  flatter  yourself  I  can't  force  you  1  I  know 
duelling  is  out  of  fashion  in  this  infernal  cold-blooded  coun- 
try ;  but  even  here  there  are  insults  a  man  can't  put  up  with 
and  hold  his  head  up  before  the  world  :  take  care  I  don't  put 
such  an  insult  upon  you.     (Drawing  near,  and  lifting  up  his  hand.) 

M.  Don't  try  that  on  again  ;  I  may  be  less  patient  the 
second  time.  I  nnight  send  you  into  the  street  without  the 
trouble  of  going  dow^n  stairs ;  there  's  two  stories'  fall,  not  to 
speak  of  the  area  spikes  ;  you  might  hurt  yourself. 

H.  Very  well.  We  are  by  ourselves,  there  would  be  no  use 
in  insulting  you  here  ;  but  take  care  :  the  first  time  we  meet 
in  company,  I  will  lash  jow  across  the  face  with  my  horsewhip. 
We  shall  see  then  if  you  will  refuse  me  satisfaction. 

M.  We  shall.  If  you  were  only  a  duellist,  I  dovibt  if  I 
should  think  myself  bound  to  risk  my  life  against  yours. 
But  I  presume  even  the  laws  which  you  recognize  absolve 
me  from  the  obligation  of  going  out  with  a  swindler  and  a 


•ger. 


DESCRIPTION   OF   THE   CHASE.  183 

H.  (gnnding  his  teeth).  Do  you  wish  to  provoke  me  to  murder 
you  ] 

M.  0,  I  'm  not  the  least  afraid  of  that !  For  a  man  who 
can  snuft'  a  candle  at  twenty  paces  to  call  out  another  who 
never  fired  a  pistol  in  his  life  is  no  great  piece  of  heroism  ; 
but  to  commit  a  murder  requires  some  pluck.  You  've  de- 
fied transportation,  but  I  don't  think  you  're  the  man  to  risk 
the  gallows.     Good  morning. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  CHASE. 

CONSTAKCE  ;    WiLDRAKE. 

WILDPiAKE.    Kind  lady,  I  attend  your  fair  commands. 
Constance.    Worthy  sir. 
Souls  attract  souls,  when  they  're  of  kindred  vein. 
The  life  that  you  love,  I  love.     Well  I  know, 
'Monffst  those  who  breast  the  feats  of  the  bold  chase 
You  stand  without  a  peer ;  and  for  myself, 
I  dare  avow,  'mong  such  none  follows  them 
With  heartier  glee  than  I  do. 

Wild.    Churl  were  he 
That  would  gainsay  you,  madam  ! 

Con.  (courtesying).    What  delight 
To  back  the  flying  steed,  that  challenges 
The  wind  for  speed  !   seems  native  more  of  air 
Than  earth  !  whose  burden  only  lends  him  fire  ! 
Whose  soul,  in  his  task,  turns  labor  into  sport ! 
Who  makes  your  pastime  his  !     I  sit  him  now  ! 
He  takes  away  my  breath  !     He  makes  me  reel ! 
I  touch  not  earth,  I  see  not,  hear  not !    All 
Is  ecstasy  of  motion  ! 

Wild.    You  are  used, 
I  see,  to  the  chase. 

Con.    I  am,  sir.     Then  the  leap  ! 


184  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

To  see  the  saucy  barrier,  and  know 
The  mettle  that  can  clear  it.     Then  your  time 
To  prove  you  master  of  the  manage.     Now 
You  keep  him  well  together  for  a  space, 
Both  horse  and  rider  braced  as  you  were  one, 
Scanning  the  distance ;  then  you  give  him  rein, 
And  let  him  fly  at  it,  and  o'er  he  goes, 
Light  as  a  bird  on  wing. 

Wild.    'T  were  a  bold  leap, 
I  see,  that  turned  you,  madam. 

Con.  (courtesying).    Sir,  you  're  good  ! 
And  then  the  hounds,  sir !     Nothing  I  admire 
Beyond  the  running  of  the  well-trained  pack. 
The  training 's  everything  !     Keen  on  the  scent ! 
At  fault  none  losing  heart,  but  all  at  work. 
None  leaving  his  task  to  another ;    answering 
The  watchful  huntsman's  caution,  check,  or  cheer> 
As  steed  his  rider's  rein.     Away  they  go  ! 
How  close  they  keep  together  !  —  What  a  pack  ! 
Nor  turn,  nor  ditch,  nor  stream  divides  them,  —  as 
They  moved  with  one  intelligence,  act,  will ! 
And  then  the  concert  they  keep  up  !  enough 
To  make  one  tenant  of  the  merry  wood, 
To  list  their  jocund  music  ! 

Wild.    You  describe 
The  huntsman's  pastime  to  the  life. 

Con.    I  love  it ! 
To  wood  and  glen,  hamlet  and  town,  it  is 
A  laughing  holiday.     Not  a  hill-top 
But 's  then  alive ;  footmen  with  horsemen  vie ; 
All  earth  's  astir,  roused  with  the  revelry 
Of  vigor,  health,  and  joy  !     Cheer  awakes  cheer, 
While  Echo's  mimic  tongue,  that  never  tires, 
Keeps  up  the  hearty  din  !     Each  face  is  then 
Its  neighbor's  glass,  —  whei'e  gladness  sees  itself 
And,  at  the  bright  reflection,  grows  more  glad,  — 
Breaks  into  tenfold  mirth,  —  laughs  like  a  child,  — 


"MY  NEW   PITTAYATEES  !  "  185 

Woiild  make  a  gift  of  its  heart,  it  is  so  free ; 
Would  scarce  accept  a  kingdom,  't  is  so  rich ; 
Shakes  hauds  with  all,  and  vows  it  never  knew 
That  life  was  life  before  ! 
Wild.    Nay,  every  w^ay 
You  do  fair  justice,  lady,  to  the  chase. 


"MY  NEW  PITTAYATEES!" 
Kattt;  Sally. 

Enter  Kattt,  tcitli  a  gray  cloak,  a  dirty  cap,  and  a  black  eye;  a  sieve  of  po- 
tatoes on  her  head,  and  a  "  trijle  o'  sper'ts  "  in  it.  Katty  meanders  down 
Patrick  Street. 

KATTY.  "My  new  Pittayatees !  —  My-a-new  Pittaya- 
tees  !  —  My  new  —  "  (Meeting  a  friend.)  Sally,  darlin',  is 
that  you  1 

Sally.  Troth,  it 's  myself;  and  what 's  the  matter  wid 
you,  Katty] 

Kat.  'Deed,  my  heart's  bruk,  cryin'  —  '•'■  New  pittayatees'''' 
—  cryin'  after  that  vagabone. 

Sal.    Is  it  Mike  % 

Kat.    Troth,  it 's  himself  indeed. 

Sal.    And  what  is  it  he  done  % 

Kat.  Och  !  he  ruined  me  with  his  —  "  New  pittayatees  "  — 
with  his  goins-an,  — the  owld  thing,  my  dear  — 

Sal.    Throwin'  up  his  little  finger,  I  suppose  1* 

Kat.  Yis,  my  darlint :  he  kem  home  th'  other  night,  bla- 
zin'  blind  dhrunk,  cryin'  out  —  '■'■New  pittay-a-tees  ! '^  —  roar- 
in'  and  bawlin',  that  you  'd  think  he  'd  rise  the  I'oof  aff  o'  the 
house. 

"  Bad  luck  attend  you ;  bad  cess  to  you,  you  potwallopin' 
varmint,"  says  he  (maynin'  me,  i'  you  plaze).      "  Wait  till  I 

♦  Getting  drunk. 


186  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

ketch  you,  you  sthrap,  and  it 's  I  '11  give  you  your  fill  iv  "  — 
^ New  pittayatees  I '  —  "your  fill  iv  a  licking,  if  ever  you  got 
it,"  says  he. 

So,  with  that,  I  knew  the  villian  was  mulvathered ;  *  let 
alone  the  heavy  fut  o'  the  miscrayint  an  the  stairs,  that  a 
child  might  know  he  was  done  for  —  "  My  neiv  j)ittayatees  !  " 

—  Troth,  he  was  done  to  a  turn,  like  a  mutton-kidney, 
Sal.    Musha  !  God  help  you,  Katty. 

Kat.  0,  wait  till  you  hear  the  ind  o'  my  —  '■'■New  'pittaya- 
tees !  "  —  o'  my  troubles,  and  it 's  then  you  '11  open  your  eyes 

—  "  My  new  pjittayatees  !  " 
Sal.   0,  bud  I  pity  you  ! 

Kat.  0,  wait,  — wait,  my  jewel,  —  wait  till  you  hear  what 
became  o'  —  "  My  new  pittayatees  !  "  —  wait  till  I  tell  you  the 
ind  of  it.     Where  did  I  lave  aff?     0,  ay,  at  the  stairs. 

Well,  as  he  was  comiu'  up-stairs  (knowin'  how  it  ud  be),  I 
thought  it  best  to  take  care  o'  my  —  "  Neiv  pittayatees  !  "  — 
to  take  care  o'  myself;  so  with  that  I  put  the  bo  wit  an  the  . 
door  betune  me  and  danger,  and  kep'  list'nin'  at  the  key-hole ; 
and  sure  enough  what  should  I  hear  but  —  "  Neiv  p>ittaya- . 
tees  l""  —  but  the  vagabone  gropin'  his  way  round  the  cruked 
turn  in  the  stair,  and  tumblin'  afther  into  the  hole  in  the 
flure  an  the  landin',  and  whin  he  come  to  himself  he  gev  a 
thunderin'  thump  at  the  door.  "  Who  's  there  ] "  says  I. 
Says  he  —  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  "  Let  me  in,"  says  he,  "  you 
vagabone  (swarein'  by  what  I  would  n't  mintion),  or  by  this 
and  that  I  '11  massacray  you,"  says  he,  "  within  an  inch  o'  — 
*■  Neiv  pittayatees  f  —  within  an  inch  o'  your  life,"  says  he. 
"  Mikee,  darlint,"  says  I,  sootherin'  him. 

Sal.    Why  would  you  call  sitch  a  'tarnal  vagabone  darlint  ? 

Kat.    My  jew'l,   did  n't  I  tell  you  I   thought  it  best  to    • 
soother   him  with  —  "  Neiv  pAttayatees  !  "  —  with   a   tindher 
word  %  so  says  I,  "  Mikee,  you  villian,  you  're  disguised,"  says 
I,  "you  're  disguised,  dear." 

"You  lie,"  says  he,  "you  impident  sthrap!    I'm  not  dis- 

*  Intoxicated. 


"MY   NEW   PITTAYATEES  !  "  187 

guised  ;  but  if  I  'm  disguised  itself,"  says  he,  "  I  '11  make  you 
know  the  differ,"  says  he. 

0,  I  thought  the  life  id  lave  me,  when  I  heerd  him  say 
the  word  ;  and  with  that  I  put  my  hand  an  —  "  i/y  new  x>^i' 
tayatees  !  "  —  an  the  latch  o'  the  door,  to  purviiit  it  from  slip- 
pin'  ;  and  he  ups  and  he  gives  a  wicked  kick  at  the  door,  and 
says  he,  "  If  you  don't  let  me  in  this  minit,"  says  he,  "  I  '11 
be  the  death  o'  your  —  '  New  pittayatees  / '  —  o'  youi'self  and 
your  dirty  breed,"  says  he.  Think  o'  that,  Sally  dear,  to 
abuse  my  relations. 

Sal.    0,  the  ruffin  ! 

Kat.  Dirty  breed,  indeed  !  By  my  sowkins,  they  're  as 
good  as  his  any  day  in  the  year,  and  was  never  behoulden  to 

—  "  iVew  pittayatees!''''  —  to  go  a  beggin'  to  the  mendicity  for 
their  dirty  —  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  their  dirty  washius  o' 
pots,  and  sarvints'  lavins,  and  dogs'  bones,  all  as  one  as  that 
cruk'd  disciple  of  his  mother's  cousii's  sister,  the  owld 
dhrunken  aper  se-and,  as  she  is. 

Sal.    No,  in  troth,  Katty  dear. 

Kat.  Well,  where  was  11  0,  ay,  I  left  off  at  —  "New 
pittayatees!"  —  I  left  off  at  my  dirty  breed.  Well,  at  the 
word  "  dirty  breed,"  I  knew  full  well  the  bad  dhrop  was  up 
in  him ;  and,  faith,  it 's  soon  and  suddint  he  made  me  sensi- 
ble av  it,  for  the  first  word  he  said  was  —  "  New  pittayatees  !" 

—  the  first  word  he  said  was  to  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door, 
and  in  he  bursted  the  door,  fallin'  down  in  the  middle  o'  the 
flure,  cryin'  out — -"New  pittayatees!'^  —  cryin'  out,  "Bad 
luck  attind  you,"  says  he,  "  how  dar'  you  refuse  to  let  me  into 
my  own  house,  you  sthrap,"  says  he,  "agin  the  law  of  the 
land,"  says  he,  sci'amblin'  up  on  his  pins  agin  as  well  as  he 
could;  and,  as  he  was  risin',   says  I  —  "New  pittayatees!" 

—  says  I  to  him  (screeching  out  loud,  that  the  neighbors 
in  the  flure  below  might  hear  mc),  "  Mikee,  my  darlint ! " 
says  I. 

"  Keep  the  pace,  you  vagabone!  "  says  he  ;  and  with  that, 
he  hits  me  a  lick  av  a  —  "  Nev)  pittayatees!"  —  a  lick  av  a 
stick  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  down  I  fell  (and  small  blame  to 


188  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

me),  down  I  fell  on  the  flure,  cryin'  —  "New  pittayatees !  " -^ 
cry  in'  out,  "  Murther  !  murther  !  " 

Sal.    0  the  hangin'  bone  villian  ! 

Kat.  0,  that 's  not  all !  As  I  was  risin',  my  jew'l,  he  was 
going  to  sthrek  me  agin  ;  and  with  that  I  cried  out  —  "  New 
jnttayatees  1^'  —  I  cried  out,  "  Fair  play,  Mikee,"  says  I, 
"  don't  sthrek  a  man  down  "  ;  but  he  would  n't  listen  to  ray- 
son,  and  was  goin'  to  hit  me  agin,  when  I  put  up  the  child 
that  was  in  my  arms  betune  me  and  harm. 

"0,"  says  I,  "Mikee,  darlint,  don't  sthrek  the  babby"; 
but,  my  dear,  before  the  word  was  out  o'  my  mouth,  he 
sthruk  the  babby.  (I  thought  the  life  'id  lave  me.)  And,  iv 
course,  the  poor  babby,  that  never  spuk  a  word,  began  to  cry 

—  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  began  to  cry  and  roar  and  bawl, 
and  no  wonder. 

Sal.    0,  the  hay  then,  to  go  sthrek  the  child  ! 
Kat.    And,  my  jew'l,   the  neighbors  in  the  flure  below, 
hearin'  the  skrimmage,  kem  runnin'  up  the  stairs,  cryin'  out 

—  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  cryin'  out,  "  Watch,  watch  !  Mikee 
McEvoy,"  says  they,  "  would  you  murther  your  wife,  you 
villian  ] "  "  What 's  that  to  you  % "  says  he  ;  "  is  n't  she  my 
own  1 "  says  he,  "  and  if  I  plaze  to  make  her  feel  the  weight 
o'  my — "New  pittayatees  T'  —  the  weight  o'  my  fist,  what's 
that  to  you  1 "  says  he  ;  "  it 's  none  o'  your  business,  anyhow, 
so  keep  your  tongue  in  your  jaw,  and  your  toe  in  your  pump, 
and  't  will  be  betther  for  your  —  "  New  pittayatees  I  "  —  't  will 
be  betther  for  your  health,  I  'm  thinkin',"  says  he  ;  and  with 
that  he  looked  cruked  at  thim,  and  squared  up  to  one  o' 
thim  (a  poor  definceless  craythur,  a  tailor). 

"Would  you  fight  your  match  1"  says  the  poor  innocent 
man. 

"  Lave  my  sight,"    says   Mike,    "  or,  by  jingo,  I  '11  put  a»v 
stitch  in  your  side,  my  jolly  tailor,"  says  he. 

"Yiv  put  a  stitch  in  your  wig  already,"  says  the  tailor, 
"  and  that  '11  do  for  the  present  writin'." 

And  with  that,  Mike  was  goin'  to  hit  him  with  a  —  "  New 
pittayatees  f''  —  a  lift-hander;    but  he  was  cotch  howld  iv 


"MY   NEW   PITTAYATEES  !  "  189 

before  he  could  let  go  his  blow ;  and  who  should  staud  up 
forninst  him,  but  —  "  My  new  pittayatees  !  "  —  but  the  tailor's 
■wife  (and,  by  my  sowl,  it 's  she  that 's  the  sthrapper,  and 
more  's  the  pity  she  's  thrown  away  upou  one  o'  the  sort),  and 
says  she,  "  Let  me  at  him,"  says  she  ;  "  it 's  I  that  used  to  give 
a  man  a  lickiu'  every  day  in  the  week  :  you  're  bowld  an  the 
head  now,  you  vagabone,"  says  she ;  "  but  if  I  had  you  alone," 
says  she,  "  no  matther  if  I  would  n't  take  the  consait  out  o' 
your — "  xVe?/'  inttayatees  1'^  —  out  o'  your  braggin'  heart"; 
and  that 's  the  way  she  wint  an  ball}Taggin'  him ;  and,  be 
gor,  they  all  tuk  patthern  afther  her,  and  abused  him,  my 
dear,  to  that  degree,  that  I  vow  to  the  Lord  the  very  dogs  in 
the  sthreet  would  n't  lick  his  blood. 

Sal.    0,  my  blessin'  an  them  ! 

Kat.  And  with  that,  one  and  all,  they  begun  to  cry  — 
'^  New  pittayatees  I '"  —  they  begun  to  cry  him  down;  and,  at 
last,  they  all  swore  out,  "Hell's  bells  attind  your  berrin," 
says  they,  "  you  vagabone  !  "  as  they  just  tuk  him  up  by  the 
scruff  o'  the  neck,  and  threw  him  down  the  stairs  ;  every  step 
he  'd  take,  you  'd  think  he  'd  brake  his  neck  (Glory  be  to 
God  !),  and  so  I  got  rid  o'  the  ruffin ;  and  then  they  left  me 
cryiu'  —  '^  New  pittayatees  r''  —  cryin'  afther  the  vagabone, 
though  the  angels  knows  well  he  was  n't  desarvin'  o'  one  pre- 
cious drop  that  fell  from  my  two  good-lookin'  eyes ;  and,  0, 
but  the  condition  he  left  me  in  ! 

Sal.    Lord  look  down  an  you  ! 

Kat.  And  a  pretty  sight  it  id  be,  if  you  could  see  how  I 
was  lyin'  in  the  middle  o'  the  flure,  cryin'  —  "  New  pittaya- 
tees!"—  cryin'  and  roarin',  and  the  poor  child,  with  his  eye 
knocked  out,  in  the  corner  cryin'  —  '■'■New  pittayatees!''''  — 
and,  indeed,  every  one  in  the  place  was  cryin'  —  "  New  pit- 
tayatees !  " 

Sal.    And  no  wondher,  Katty  dear. 

Kat.  0,  bud  that 's  not  all.  If  you  seen  the  condition  the 
place  was  in  afther  it ;  it  was  tiirned  upside  down,  like  a  beg- 
gar's breeches.  Troth,  I  'd  rather  be  at  a  bull-bait  than  at 
it,  —  enough  to  make  an  honest  woman  cry  —  "  New  pittaya- 


190  PUBLIC   AND  PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

tees  !  "  —  to  see  the  daycent  room  rack'd  and  ruin'd,  and  my 
cap  tore  aff  my  head  into  tatthers  —  throth,  you  might  rid- 
dle bull-dogs  through  it ;  and  bad  luck  to  the  hap'orth  he  left 
me,  but  a  few  —  ^^ New  pittayatees  ! ^'  —  a  few  coppers;  for 
the  morodin'  thief  spint  all  his  —  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  all 
his  wages  o'  the  whole  week  in  makin'  a  baste  iv  himself ;  and 
God  knows  but  that  comes  aisy  to  him  !  and  divil  a  thing  had 
I  to  put  inside  my  face,  nor  a  dhrop  to  drink,  barrin'  a  few  — 
"  New  pittayatees  /  "  —  a  few  grains  o'  tay,  and  the  ind  iv  a 
quarther  o'  sugar,  and  my  eyes  as  big  as  your  fist,  and  as 
black  as  the  pot  (savin'  your  presence),  and  a  beautiful  dish 
iv  —  "  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  dish  iv  delf,  that  I  bought  only 
last  week  in  Temple  Bar,  bruk  in  three  halves,  in  the  mid- 
dle o'  the  ruction,  and  the  rint  o'  the  room  not  ped,  and  I 
dipindin'  only  an  —  '■^  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  an  cryin' a  sieve- 
full  o'  pratees,  or  schreechin'  a  lock  o'  savoys,  or  the  like. 

But  I  '11  not  brake  your  heart  any  more,  Sally  dear. 
God  's  good,  and  never  opens  one  door  but  he  shuts  another, 
and  that 's  the  way  iv  it ;  an'  strinthins  the  wake  with  — 
"  New  pittayatees  !  "  —  with  his  purtection  —  and  may  the 
widdy  and  the  orphin's  blessin'  be  an  his  name,  I  pray ! 
And  my  thrust  is  in  the  Divine  Providence,  that  was  always 
good  to  me,  and  sure  I  don't  despair ;  but  not  a  night  that 
I  kneel  down  to  say  my  prayers,  that  I  don't  pray  for  — 
"  New  pittayatees!  "  —  for  all  manner  o'  bad  luck  to  attind  that 
vagabone,  Mikee  McEvoy.  My  curse  light  an  him  this  blessid 
minit !  and  — 

A  voice  at  a  distance  calls,  "  Potatoes ! " 

Kat.  Who  calls'? — (Perceives  her  customer.) — Here,  ma'am. 
Good-by,  Sally,  darlint,  good-by.     "  New  pittay-a-tees  !  " 

[Exeunt  by  opposite  sides  of  stage. 


A  HAPPY   CHRISTMAS.  191 


A  HAPPY  CHPtlSTMAS. 

Mr.  "Woodlet,  a  merchant;   Oswald,  his  son;  Amelia,  his  daughter ; 
Edwin  Lovell,  a  poor  young  artist ;  Bridget  ;  Messenger. 

Scene  I. — Mr.  Woodley's  parlor,  decorated  with  evergreen  and  holly. 
Oswald  is  examining  a  new  writing-desk. 

OSWALD.  How  kind  and  thoughtful  father  is,  to  give  me 
just  what  I  wanted  for  my  Christmas  present !  Ink- 
stand, pen-wiper,  paper-cutter,  a  box  of  pens,  ruler,  stamps,  — 
everything  complete ;  and  well  stocked  with  paper  and 
envelopes,  too  !  This  cost  not  a  trifle,  dear  father  !  I  must 
try  to  return  his  kindness  by  being  attentive  to  his  wishes. 
Ah  !  here  is  something  for  sister,  too  !  I  wonder  what  it  is  ! 
I  11  wait  till  she  comes  in.     (Enter  Amelia.) 

Amelia.    Good  morning,  Oswald  ! 

Both.    Wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  ! 

Am.    Where  's  father  ? 

Os.  He  's  gone.  He  was  called  down  town  quite  unexpect- 
edly. See  what  I  found  just  now  for  me!  Isn't  it  a 
beauty  % 

Am.  That  is  charming  !  [Opening  and  examining  the  desk.)  Why, 
it  was  only  yesterday  I  heard  you  wishing  for  a  writing-desk. 
But  what  is  this]  (Taking  up  package.)  " To  my  dear  Amelia, 
with  a  '  Merry  Christmas,'  —  from  Father."  What  can  it  be  ? 
(Sitting  down,  and  holding  the  package  in  her  lap  while  she  carefully  univraps  it.) 
It  is  quite  heavy.  Ah  !  a  book.  What  a  beauty  !  —  filled 
with  exquisite  pictures  !  Father  could  n't  have  given  me 
anything  that  would  have  pleased  me  half  so  much.  See 
this  view,  Oswald  ;  is  n't  it  perfect  1  ( Oswald  sits  down  beside 
her,  and  they  examine  the  book  together.)  And  this!  Here  is  a  copy 
of  one  of  Raphael's  famous  pictures.  Here  is  another.  This 
is  copied  from  one  of  Correggio's.  M  —  m  —  !  (ahnost  hugging 
the  book.)    What  a  darling  present ! 

Os.  Amelia,  I  know  a  boy  who  would  be  very  glad  to 
examine  this  elegant  book.      He  has   no   chance   of  seeing 


192  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

anything  of  the  kind,  except  by  gazing  in  at  the  windows  of 
the  bookstores. 

Am.    Who  is  he  1 

Os.  His  name  is  Edwin  Lovell.  His  father  has  seen  better 
days,  but  has  met  with  misfortunes,  so  that  he  has  a  hard 
struggle  to  support  his  family.  Edwin  has  a  genius  for  draw- 
ing, though  he  has  never  had  the  means  of  cultivating  it  to 
any  great  extent.  He  is  a  sensible  boy,  too ;  and  I  like  him 
very  much.  His  mother  must  be  a  nice  woman ,  for  though 
their  income  is  so  small,  Edwin  is  always  clean  and  neat.  He 
is  a  fine-looking  fellow,  too. 

Am.  I  should  like  to  know  him.  Why  do  you  not  invite 
him  here  1 

Os.  All  his  leisure  time  is  devoted  to  drawing.  He  saves 
what  little  money  he  gets,  to  buy  paper  and  pencils.  He 
never  likes  to  see  anything  wasted  that  can  be  used  for  draw- 
ing, and  is  glad  to  get  even  the  blank  side  of  a  letter. 

Am.  As  poor  as  that !  How  I  wish  we  could  help  him  in 
some  way  ! 

Os.  Last  Saturday  I  thought  I  would  call  for  him,  and 
take  him  to  see  some  very  fine  pictures  which  were  to  be  sold 
at  auction  on  Monday.  Their  door  was  opened  by  a  green 
Irish  girl,  who  knew  no  better  than  to  show  me  at  once  up 
stairs  to  Edwin's  chamber,  —  a  very  small  place,  perfectly 
clean,  but  furnished  in  the  scantiest  manner.  There  was  no 
fire  in  the  room.  Edwin  was  sitting  at  a  little  pine  table 
with  his  coat  on,  and  his  feet  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl  of  his 
mother's,  to  keep  them  warm.  He  was  very  busy,  copying  a 
head  of  Decatur  from  a  China  pitcher,  improving  on  it  so 
much  that  it  really  made  a  very  fine  drawing. 

A_M.    Poor  fellow  !  had  he  nothing  better  to  copy  1 

Os.  That  is  what  I  asked  him ;  but  he  confessed  he  had  so 
few  models  that  he  was  glad  to  copy  anything  he  could  get, 
provided  it  was  not  positively  bad.  He  showed  me  several 
original  drawings  which  father  would  say  were  quite  remark- 
able ;  and  some  admirable  copies,  though  many  of  them  were 
taken  from  very  coarse  prints,  for  want  of  better. 


A   HAPPY   CHRISTMAS.  193 

Am.  How  glad  he  would  be  to  have  this  elegant  book  to 
study  and  draw  from  ! 

Os.  I  guess  he  would  !  But  that  book  probably  cost  ten 
dollars ;  and  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  had  ten  dollars  in  his 
life,  poor  boy  ! 

Am.    I  shall  be  glad  to  lend  it  to  him. 

Os.  He  has  so  little  time  to  draw,  that  it  would  be  a  long 
while  before  he  could  return  it ;  or  rather,  he  would  be  so  un- 
easy at  keeping  it  long,  that  I  know  he  would  send  it  back 
before  he  had  half  done  with  it.  And  besides,  he  would  have 
no  satisfaction  in  drawing  from  your  book,  he  would  be  in 
such  constant  fear  of  soiling  it  in  some  way.  He  is  very  un- 
willing to  borrow  that  which  is  new  or  valuable. 

Air.  What  a  pity  a  boy  of  such  genius  should  have  such 
difficulties  to  contend  with  ! 

Os.  That  is  generally  the  way,  you  know,  with  real  talent. 
Some  of  the  greatest  artists  that  have  ever  lived  have  been 
obliged  to  struggle  with  poverty,  much  as  Edwin  Lovell  is 
now  doing. 

Am.  {rising  as  if  she  ivere  to  leave  the  room).  YeS,  that  is  true. 
(Returns  to  the  table,  as  if  to  examine  Oswald's  desk.)  Oswald  [in  a  hes- 
itating manner),  I  would  like  to  ask  you  one  question.  When 
we  receive  a  present,  does  it  not  become  our  own  1 

Os.    Certainly. 

Am.  And  are  we  at  liberty  to  do  just  what  we  please 
with  iti 

Os.    Precisely  :  only  I  think  we  had  better  not  destroy  it. 

Am.    Of  course  not,  —  but  —  we  may  give  it  away. 

Os.  Why,  I  do  not  know.  I  should  not  like  to  give  away 
a  present  given  me  by  any  one  I  loved. 

Am.  But  if,  in  giving  it  away,  you  made  the  one  to  whom 
you  -gave  it  happier  than  you  could  possibly  be  in  keeping  it 
yourself 

Os.    If  you  were  sure  that  would  be  the  case  — 

Am.  0,  I  am  very  sure  !  I  can  answer  for  myself  There- 
fore, dear  brother,  I  beg  you  will  accept  my  new  book. 

Os.  (astonished).    For  mc  ]     I  do  not  understand  this.     You 

9  M 


194  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

know   I   have   already   a   Christmas    gift.      I    cannot   take 
yours. 

Am.  Yes,  Oswald,  for  once  allow  me  to  make  you  a  pres- 
ent. It  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  had  it  in  my 
power  to  give  you  anything  of  consequence.  I  shall  be  so 
happy  if  you  accept  it.  There  it  is.  (Laying  the  book  on  Oswald's 
knee. ) 

Os.  But,  sister,  how  ccm  you  part  so  soon  with  father's 
present  to  you  ]     You  were  delighted  with  it  just  now. 

Am.    I  have  looked  it  through. 

Os.  {smiling).  Well,  Amelia,  since  you  are  so  generous  as  to 
give  it  to  me,  you  know  it  will  still  remain  in  the  house.  I 
shall  put  it  away  carefully  in  my  little  book-case,  and  when- 
ever you  wish  to  look  at  it,  just  tell  me  so,  and  you  shall 
have  it,  any  time. 

Am.  [lookinj]  disappointed).  But,  Oswald,  are  you  going  to 
keep  it  always  1 

Os.    Always,  as  the  gift  of  my  good  sister. 

Am.  But  I  do  not  insist  on  your  keeping  it  forever,  Oswald. 
I  shall  not  be  offended  in  the  least  if  you  give  it  away.  In- 
deed, I  wovild  rather  you  should  give  it  away  than  not,  and 
as  soon  as  possible,  too,  —  this  very  day,  if  you  choose. 

Os.  Well,  I  must  say,  Amelia,  you  have  a  very  strange 
■way  of  making  a  present,  —  wanting  it  to  be  given  away 
again  immediately. 

Am.    Why,  Oswald,  you  know  you  do  not  draw. 

Os.    No,  indeed.     I  wish  I  could  ! 

Am.  And,  if  you  could,  father  would  gladly  supply  you 
with  all  the  models  you  should  need. 

Os.  I  suppose  he  would,  as  he  never  lets  us  want  for  any- 
thing that  could  add  to  our  improvement. 

Am.  Had  not  the  book  better  be  given  to  some  one  that 
does  draw  very  well,  —  beautifully,  indeed,  — but  has  no  money 
to  buy  copies  or  models  1 

Os.  In  one  word,  had  not  this  better  be  given  to  Edwin 
Lovell  ] 

Am.   Yes ;  since  it  must  be  told,  that  is  exactly  what  I  mean. 


A  HAPPY   CHRISTMAS.  195 

Os.  So  I  guessed  from  the  beginning.  But  why  did  jou 
take  such  a  roundabout  way  of  giving  him  the  book  1 

Am.  I  don't  suppose  he  would  accept  it  from  me,  —  a 
young  girl  whom  he  has  never  seen;  but  he  wouldn't  mind 
taking  it  as  your  gift,  since  you  are  an  acquaintance  of  his. 

Os.    Say,  rather,  a  friend. 

Am.  I  know  you  so  well,  that  after  our  conversation  about 
him,  I  was  certain  that  if  I  gave  the  book  to  you,  you  would 
give  it  at  once  to  the  poor  boy ;  and  I  confess  I  was  much 
disconcerted  when  you  pretended  at  first  that  you  would  keep 
it  always. 

Os.  Amelia,  the  book  is  yours,  and  the  suggestion  is  yours. 
I  will  not  take  to  myself  more  merit  than  I  deserve.  If  you 
are  determined  to  give  this  elegant  book  of  engravings  to 
Edwin  Lovell,  the  best  way  is  to  wrap  it  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  address  it  to  him.  Add  a  few  words  on  the  inside>  re- 
questing him  to  accept  it  from  an  unknown  admirer  of  early 
genius. 

Am.  That  would  be  a  good  plan.  I  wonder  I  did  n't  think 
of  it  before.     I  will  set  about  it  at  once. 

Os.  Here  is  a  nice  sheet  of  paper,  and  here  is  my  new 
writing-desk.  Let  it  be  used  for  the  first  time  in  a  good 
cause. 

Am.  {sits  down  and  icrites).  I  never  wrote  anything  with  more 
pleasure. 

Os.    Be  sure  to  put  "early  genius," 

Am.    Yes,  I  have. 

Os.  Let  me  see  it.  I  never  saw  any  writing  of  yours  look 
half  so  pretty.  Now  I  will  wrap  it  up  carefully,  and  tic  it 
round  with  red  tape.  Girls  seldom  do  such  things  well. 
{He  wraps  it  up  and  ties  it.)     There,  now  direct  it. 

Am.    The  next  thing  is,  whom  shall  we  get  to  carry  it  1 

Os.  I  will  take  it  to  the  Intelligence  Office,  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  give  one  of  the  black  boys  that  is  always  loitering 
there  a  trifle  to  carry  it  to  Mr.  Lovell's  house,  and  tell  him  to 
just  leave  it  with  whoever  may  open  the  door. 

Am.  That  will  do  very  well.  Now,  Oswald,  make  haste, 
for  I  hear  father  coming. 


196  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Scene  II.  —  Edwin  Lovell's  room,  scaniili/  furnished.  Edwin,  with 
his  overcoat  on  and  his  feel  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl,  sits  at  the  table  draw- 
ing from  an  old  bit  of  China  ware.  He  occasionally  stops  to  breathe  upon 
his  benumbed  fingers. 

Edwin.  Christmas  Day  !  It  does  not  look  much  like  it 
hei'e.  It  is  a  beautiful  sunuy  day  out-of-doors  anyhow ! 
How  I  wish  some  of  the  sunshiue  would  take  a  tangible  form 
in  the  shape  of  a  good  fire  to  warm  a  fellow  !  That  would  be 
a  Christmas  present  worth  having.  But  stop  !  If  Santa 
Claus  could  give  me  what  I  want  most,  I  would  n't  ask  for 
comforts  for  myself.  If  I  could  only  do  something  to  help 
father  get  into  business  again,  or  have  the  means  of  providing 
a  more  comfortable  home  for  dear  mother,  it  would  be  the 
happiest  Christmas  I  could  possibly  have.  {A  knock  at  the  door.) 
Come  in ! 

Enter  Bridget. 

Eridgbt.  An'  sure,  Masther  Edwin,  the  saints  has  not  for- 
got ye's,  as  ought  not  to  be  forgotten,  on  this  blissid  Christ- 
mas Day.  Here  's  a  book  for  ye,  signed  and  delivered.  An' 
who  should  bring  it  but  that  young  brat  of  a  Joe  Wiley, 
that 's  allers  making  fun  of  a  poor  goiTul  when  she  's  hurryin' 
to  church  to  say  her  prayers. 

Edwin.    What  is  it  you  say,  Bridget  1     Something  for  mel 

Bridg.   For  yerself  intirely  (courtesying),  long  luck  to  ye  ! 

Edwin.    And  who,  did  you  say,  brought  it  1 

Bridg.  That  young  divil  of  a  Joe  Wiley,  sure ;  and  whin 
I  axed  him  who  for  was  it,  he  said,  "  Had  I  no  eyes  in  my  head 
to  see  Ml-.  Edwin  Lovell  on  thekiverl"  An'  I  said,  "No, 
troth,  I  'd  not  seen  ye's  sin'  the  marnin'." 

Edwin.  Well,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Bridget,  and 
I  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  ! 

Bridg.  The  same  to  yersilf,  Masther  Edwin,  and  manny  o' 
them  !  But  sure,  did  n't  I  lave  my  pertatees  a  bilin'  that 's  for 
ye's  dinner  and  the  rist  o'  the  family  1  and  I  must  n't  be  for 
detainin'  ye,  and  burning  their  skins  aff,  —  bad  luck  to  'em  ! 

[Exit. 

Edwin   (evening  the  package).    This  —  is  —  superb  !  —  filled 


A   HAPPY   CHRISTMAS.  197 

with  fine  engravings  !  {Claps  his  hands  icith  deliyht.)  What  a  treat 
before  me  !  Who  cares  for  bare  walls  and  cold  feet  1  I  am 
rich  as  Croesus  !  Who  in  the  world  could  have  sent  it  1  — 
Stop !  here  is  a  note,  written  in  a  female  hand.  More 
mysterious  yet !    (Reads.) 

"Will  Edwin  Lovell  please  accept  the  enclosed,  from  an  un- 
known atlmirer  of  early  genius." 

I  am  completely  puzzled  !  No  ordinary  taste  could  have  se- 
lected such  a  treasure  of  art.  So  elegantly  got  up,  too. 
Ah,  w^hat  is  this'?  (Reading  from  the  fly-leaf.)  "To  Amelia 
Woodley,  from  Father."  Amelia  Woodley  !  why,  that  must  be 
Oswald's  sister.  I  have  never  seen  her,  but  I  have  heard  Os- 
wald speak  of  her  often.  I  remember  he  said  she  had  a  great 
taste  for  drawing,  and  would  enjoy  looking  over  my  sketches. 
I  see  through  it  all  I  Oswald  has  often  said  he  wished  I 
had  better  matei'ials  to  work  with.  He  has  probably  said  the 
same  to  his  sister.  She  has  a  kind  heart,  —  I  know  that,  — 
Oswald  said  so ;  and  she  has  sent  me  her  own  Christmas 
present,  unbeknown  to  her  father.  1  must  not  keep  it.  It 
is  a  great  temptation.  I  may  never  have  such  a  chance  for 
study  again.  What  would  be  the  harm  in  keeping  it  a  week 
or  so,  and  then  returning  it  1  Bat  no ;  it  is  not  honorably 
mine  for  an  instant.  I  will  not  tempt  myself  any  longer  by 
admiring  it.  I  will  write  a  note  of  acknowledgment,  and  re- 
turn it.  (Sits  down  and  writes.)  There,  now  I  will  wrap  it  up 
again,  direct  it  to  Oswald,  and  leave  it  myself  at  Mr.  Wood- 
ley's  door.  [Exit. 

Scene  III.  —  Mr.  Woodlet's  parlor.     Present,  Mk.  W.,  Oswald,  and 

Ajielia.      Mr.  W.  sitting  at  the  centre-table  looking  over  some  English 
newspapers. 

Mr.  Woodley.  I  have  been  reading  a  long  critique  upon  a 
new  picture  by  an  American  artist  now  in  London.  It  is 
a  very  favorable  notice,  and  speaks  well  for  the  progress  of  art 
in  our  own  country.  Amelia,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  there 
is  in  your  new  bcjok  an  engraving  from  this  very  picture.  Let 
me  look  at  it  again. 


198  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Amelia  looks  embarrassed,  glances  at  Oswald,  and  does  not  know  lohat  to 

say. 

My  dear,  did  you  not  hear  mel  If  you  can  get  the  book 
conveniently,  I  should  like  to  look  at  that  plate. 

Am.  (confused  and  trembling).     I  —  I  —    [Her  eyes  filling  with  tears.) 

Mr.  W.  Amelia,  has  any  accident  happened  to  the 
book? 

Am.    No,  my  dear  father,  but  —  I  have  given  it  away. 

Mr.  W.  Is  it  possible  that  you  were  so  soon  tired  of  your 
father's  Christmas  gift  1 

Am.  0  no,  no  !  but  there  is  a  poor  boy  who  draws  beauti- 
fully ;  and  I  thought  it  would  make  him  so  happy  —  Os- 
wald, you  tell ! 

Os.  Well,  you  see,  father,  a  boy  that  I  know,  named  Ed- 
win Lovell,  has  a  great  genius  for  drawing.  He  is  very  poor, 
and  he  copies  old  bits  of  china  or  anything  he  can  find,  for 
the  sake  of  having  something  to  draw  from.  He  is  good  as 
gold,  too.  When  Amelia  heard  ]ne  say  how  he  would  enjoy 
having  such  a  book  to  sketch  from,  she  could  not  rest  till  I 
helped  her  plan  to  give  the  book  to  Edwin  without  his  know- 
ing where  it  came  from.  I  can  see  now,  we  ought  to  have 
told  you  about  it. 

Mr.  W.  I  am  much  disappointed.  There  is  not  another 
such  a  book  to  be  found  in  the  country.  I  was  looking  for- 
ward with  so  much  pleasure  to  having  the  book  to  look  over 
with  you  these  long  winter  evenings. 

Am.  0  father,  I  am  so  sorry  if  I  have  taken  any  pleasure 
fi'om  you  !  I  did  n't  think  of  that.  I  only  thought  how  de- 
lighted the  poor  boy  would  be  in  having  such  a  beauty  of  a 
book  to  copy  from.  Oswald  says  he  has  so  little  in  life  to 
make  him  happy.  You  will  forgive  me,  dear  father,  won't 
you  1     I  did  not  7nea)i  to  do  wrong. 

Mr.  W.  Well,  well,  child  !  it  can't  be  helped  now.  We 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  I  like  to  see  you  so  thoughtful  for 
those  less  fortunate  than  yourself.  (The  door-bell  rings.  Servant 
enters,  and  gives  Oswald  the  package.) 

Os.    Ah,  this  is  so  like  Edwin  !     He  sends  back  the  book 


A  HAPPY   CHRISTMAS.  199 

of  engravings  vrith  this  note.     {Reads  note  to  himself,  then  hands  it  to 
his  father. ) 

Mr.  W.    {reads  aloud). 

"  Accident  has  discovered  to  me  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  a 
most  beautiful  present.  But  though  it  excites  my  -wannest  grati- 
tude, I  cannot  consent  to  accept  it  under  circumstances  of  mystery 
to  which  the  parents  of  my  kind  friends  may  be  strangers.  I  return 
it  with  a  thousand  acknowledgments. 

"Edwin  Lovell." 

Noble  boy  !  he  deserves  kindness.  Oswald,  run  after  him, 
quick  !  Make  him  come  back  and  spend  the  day  with  us. 
(Oswald  runs  out.)  I  wonder  who  his  father  is  !  Lovelll  Lov- 
ell 1  the  name  sounds  familiar.  They  are  no  common  peo- 
ple, to  have  a  boy  like  that. 

Am.    Oswald  says  his  father  was  once  in  good  business  ;  but 
through   dishonesty  of   other  parties  he  was  left  penniless. 
And  since  then  he  has  not  been  able  to  get  ahead  in  life. 
Oswald  enters,  leading  Edwin. 

Os.    Father,  this  is  my  friend,  Edwin  Lovell. 

Mr.  W.  (shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand).  Glad  to  see  you, 
my  young  friend  !  Very  glad  indeed !  Make  yourself  at 
home  here  to-day.  We  feel  that  Christmas  would  not  be 
complete  without  you. 

Edwin.    Thank  you,  sir  !  thank  you  ! 

Mr.  W.  Edwin,  this  is  my  daughter.  (Edwin  and  Amelia 
shake  hands  shyly.) 

Am.    Happy  to  see  you. 

Edwin.     I  —  ought  —      ( Confusedly. ) 

Mr.  W.  No  apologies,  —  no  nonsense  !  We  must  all  be 
jolly  to-day.  Come  here,  my  little  girl.  {To  Amelia.  He 
holds  out  the  book  to  her.)  Take  this  and  give  it  the  second  time 
to  Oswald's  young  friend,  and  our  friend,  —  {to  Edwin)  with 
my  sanction.  You  will  not  again  refuse  my  daughter's  gift, 
though  you  so  honorai)ly  returned  it  when  you  suspected  that 
she  offered  it  unbeknown  to  her  parents.  (Edwin  takes  it,  bow- 
ing his  thanks.)    And  now  there  is  one  thing  more  I  want  to 


200  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

speak  of.  I  hear  your  father  was  in  business  formerly.  Is 
his  name  Henry  C.  Lovell  1 

Edwin.    That  is  my  father's  name,  sir. 

Mr.  W.  {shaking  Edwin's  hand  again).  You  don't  say  SO  !  I 
have  shaken  your  hand  once  for  your  own  sake  ;  now  I  must 
shake  it  for  your  father's.  Why,  I  used  to  know  Henry  C. 
Lovell  well.  No  man  I  respected  more.  How  is  it  I  have 
not  seen  him,  all  these  years  1 

Edwin.  After  my  father's  failure  he  was  so  discouraged  he 
left  the  country.  But  as  he  did  not  succeed  in  getting  into 
business,  we  retiu-ned  here  a  year  ago ;  and  my  father  has  had 
a  little  to  do,  but  not  enough  to  keep  him  in  good  spirits,  nor 
my  mother  from  want. 

Mr.  W.  How  strange  are  the  ways  of  Providence  !  I  have 
been  looking  for  months  for  a  trustworthy  man  to  take  charge 
of  an  important  branch  of  our  business.  Your  father  is  just 
the  man  we  want. 

Os.  {throwing  up  his  hat).  Hurrah !  This  is  the  merriest 
Christmas  /  ever  had  !  and  I  think  we  may  thank  Edwin  for 
it.      {Dancing  around  him  and  patting  him  on  the  back. ) 

Edwin  {almost  too  much  moved  to  speak).  I  assure  you  —  it  is 
far  the  happiest  Christmas  I  ever  had,  —  tlianks  to  you  all ! 
(Bowing  to  Amelia.) 

Am.  1  am  sure  I  neA'er  knew  what  a  merry  Christmas  was 
before,  compared  to  this,  —  did  you,  dear  father  ] 

Mr.  W.  Heaven  bless  you,  my  children !  Be  assured  I 
never  had  a  more  blessed  Christmas,  thanks  to  the  good 
Father  for  giving  me  such  children,  who  find  a  Christmas 
more  merry  in  doing  good  to  others  than  in  hoarding  up 
for  themselves.  {Looking  upward,  he  rests  a  hand  on  the  head  of  Ame- 
lia and  of  Oswald.    Oswald  holds  out  his  hand  to  Edwin.  —  Closing 

TABLEAU.) 


ST.   PHILIP    XEEI   AND   THE   YOUTH.  201 


ST.  PHILIP  NERI  AXD  THE  YOUTH. 

ST.  PHILIP.    Tell  me  what  brings  you,  gentle  youth,  to 
Rome  ? 

Youth.    To  make  m^-self  a  scholar,  sir,  I  come. 

St.    And  when  you  are  one,  what  do  you  intend  1 

Y.    To  be  a  priest,  I  hope,  sir,  in  the  end. 

St.    Suppose  it  so  :  what  have  you  next  in  view  1 

Y.    That  I  may  get  to  be  a  canon  too. 

St.  Well ;  and  how  then  1 

Y.  Why,  then,  for  aught  I  kno>?, 

I  may  be  made  a  bishop. 

St.  Be  it  so  : 

What  then  1 

Y.  Why,  cardinal 's  a  high  degree,  — 

And  yet  my  lot  it  possibly  may  be. 

St.    Suppose  it  was,  what  then  1 

Y.  ^^Tiy,  who  can  say 

But  I  've  a  chance  of  being  pope  one  day  1 

St.    Well,  having  worn  the  mitre  and  red  hat 
And  triple  crown,  what  follows  after  that  1 

Y.    Nay,  there  is  nothing  further,  to  be  sure. 
Upon  this  earth  that  wishing  can  procure. 
When  I  've  enjoyed  a  dignity  so  high, 
As  long  as  God  shall  please,  then  I  must  die. 

St.    What !  must  you  die,  fond  youth,  and  at  the  best 
Biit  wish,  and  hope,  and  may  be  all  the  rest  ] 
Take  my  advice  :  whatever  may  betide. 
For  that  which  7nust  be,  first  of  all  provide  ; 
Then  think  of  that  which  may  be,  and  indeed. 
When  well  prepared,  who  knows  what  may  succeed,  — 
But  you  may  be,  as  you  are  pleased  to  hope, 
Priest,  canon,  bishop,  cardinal,  and  pope  ] 


202  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

COURTSHIP   UNDER  DIFFICULTIES. 
Snobbleton ;  Jones ;  Prudence. 


s 


NOBBLETON.    Yes,  there  is  that  fellow  Jones  again.     I 

declare,  the  man  is  ubiquitous.     Wherever  I  go  with 

my  cousin  Prudence,  we  stumble  across  him,  or  he  follows  her 

like  her  shadow.     Do  we  take  a  boating  ]     So  does  Jones. 

Do  we  wander  on  the  beach  ]     So  does  Jones.     Go  where  we 

will,  that  fellow  follows  or  moves  before.     Now,  that  was  a 

cruel  practical  joke  which   Jones  once   played   upon   me  at 

college.     I   have  never  forgiven   him.     But  I  would  gladly 

make  a  pretence  of  doing  so,   if  I  could  have  my  revenge. 

Let  me  see.     Can't  I  manage  it  1     He  is  head  over  ears  in 

love  with  Prudence,  but  too  bashful  to  speak.     I  half  believe 

she  is  not  indifferent  to  him,  though  altogether  unacquainted. 

It  may  prove  a  match,  if  I  cannot  spoil  it.     Let  me  think. 

Ha!  I  have  it !    A  brilliant  idea!     Jones,  beware!     But  here 

he  comes. 

Enter  Jones. 

JoXES  {not  seeing  Snobbleton,  and  delightedly  contemplating  a  Jlower, 
which  he  holds  in  his  hand).  0,  rapture!  what  a  prize!  It  was 
in  her  hair,  —  I  saw  it  fall  from  her  queenly  head.  {Kisses  it 
every  now  and  then.)  How  warm  are  its  tender  leaves  from  hav- 
ing touched  her  neck  !  How  doubly  sweet  is  its  perfume,  — 
fresh  from  the  fragrance  of  her  glorious  locks  !  How  beau- 
tiful !  how  —  Bless  me  !  here  is  Snobbleton,  and  we  are 
enemies  ! 

Snobbleton.  Good  morning,  Jones,  —  that  is,  if  you  will 
shake  hands. 

Jones.    What !  you  —  you  forgive  !     You  really  — 

Snob.  Yes,  yes,  old  fellow  !  All  is  forgotten.  You  played 
me  a  rough  trick  ;  but  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Will  you 
not  bury  the  hatchet  1 

Jones.    With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  fellow  ! 

Snob.  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Jones  1  You  look 
quite  grumpy, —  not  by  any  means  the  same  cheerful,  dash- 
ing, rollicking  fellow  you  were. 


COURTSHIP   UNDER   DIFFICULTIES.  203 

Jones.  Bless  me,  you  don't  say  so  !  {Aside.)  Confound 
the  man  !  Here  have  I  been  endeavoring  to  appear  romantic 
for  the  last  month,  and  now  to  be  called  grumpy,  — it  is 
unbearable ! 

Snob.  But  never  mind.  Cheer  up,  old  fellow  !  I  see  it 
all.     I  know  what  it  is  to  be  in  — 

Jones.  Ah,  you  can  then  sympathize  with  me !  Yovi 
know  what  it  is  to  be  in  — 

Snob.  Of  course  I  do!  Heaven  preserve  me  from  the  toils! 
And  then  the  letters,  the  interminable  letters  ! 

Jones.    0  yes,  the  letters  !  the  billets  doux  ! 

Snob.    And  the  bills,  the  endless  bills. 

Jones.    The  bills ! 

Snob.  Yes  ;  and  the  bailiffs,  the  lawyers,  the  judges,  and 
the  jury. 

Jones.  Why,  man,  what  are  you  talking  about  %  I  thought 
you  said  you  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in  — 

Snob.    In  debt.     To  he  sure  I  did. 

Jones.  Bless  me  !  I  'm  not  in  debt,  —  never  borrowed  a 
dollar  in  my  life.     Ah  me  !    it 's  worse  than  that. 

Snob.  Woi-se  than  that !  Come,  now,  Jones,  there  is  only 
one  thing  worse.     You  're  surely  not  in  love  1 

Jones.  Yes,  I  am.  0  Snobby,  help  me,  help  me  !  Let 
me  confide  in  you. 

Snob.  Confide  in  me  ?  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow !  See ! 
I  do  not  shrink.     I  stand  firm. 

Jones.    Snobby,  I  —  I  love  her. 

Snob.    Whom? 

Jones.    Your  cousin.  Prudence. 

Snob.    Ha!    Prudence  Angelina  Winter? 

Jones.  Now  don't  be  angry.  Snobby  !  I  don't  mean  any 
harm,  you  know.     I  —  I  —     You  know  how  it  is. 

Snob.  Harm,  my  dear  fellow  !  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Angry  ! 
Not  at  all.  You  have  my  consent,  old  fellow.  Take  her.  She 
is  yours.     Heaven  bless  you  both. 

Jones.  You  are  very  kind,  Snobby,  but  I  have  n't  got  her 
consent  yet. 


204  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Snob.  "Well,  that  is  something,  to  be  sure.  But  leave  it  all 
to  me.  She  may  be  a  little  coy,  you  know ;  but,  considering 
your  generous  overlooking  of  her  unfortunate  defect  — 

Jones.    Defect !     Yoix  surprise  me. 

Snob.    What !    and  you  did  not  know  of  it  1 

Jones.  Not  at  all.  I  am  astonished  !  Nothing  serious,  I 
hope. 

Snob.  0  no  !  only  a  little  —  {He  taps  his  ear  with  his  finger, 
knoicingly.)     I  see  you  understand  it. 

Jones.  Merciful  heaven !  can  it  be  1  But  really,  is  it 
serious  1 

Snob.    I  should  think  it  was. 

Jones.    What !     But  is  she  very  dangerous  1 

Snob.    Dangerous  !     Why  should  she  be  1 

Jones.  0,  I  perceive  !  A  mere  airiness  of  brain,  —  a  gentle 
aberration,  —  scorning  the  dull  world,  —  a  mild  — 

Snob.    Zounds,  man,  she  's  not  crazy  ! 

Jones.    My  dear  Snobby,  you  relieve  me.     What  then  1 

Snob.    Slightly  deaf  ;  that 'sail. 

Jones.    Deaf ! 

Snob.  As  a  lamp-post.  That  is,  you  must  elevate  your 
voice  to  a  considerable  pitch  in  speaking  to  her. 

Jones.  Is  it  possible  1  However,  I  think  I  can  manage. 
As,  for  instance,  if  it  was  my  intention  to  make  her  a  floral 
offering,  and  I  should  say  {elevatit^g  his  voice  considerably),  "Miss, 
will  you  make  me  happy  by  accepting  these  flowers  ■? "  I 
suppose  she  could  hear  me,  eh  ]     How  would  that  do  1 

Snob.    Pshaw  !     Do  you  call  that  elevated  1 

Jones.  Well,  how  would  this  do]  (Speaks  very  loudly.)  "  Miss, 
will  you  make  me  happy  — " 

Snob.    Louder,  shriller,  man  ! 

Jones.    "  Miss,  will  you  — " 

Snob.    Louder,  louder,  or  she  will  only  see  your  lips  move. 

Jones  {almost  sa-eaming).  "  Miss,  will  you  oblige  me  by  ac- 
cepting these  flowers  1 " 

Snob.  There,  that  may  do.  Still,  you  want  practice.  I 
perceive  the  lady  herself  is  approaching.     Suppose  you  retire 


COURTSHIP   UNDER  DIFFICULTIES.  205 

for  a  short  time,  and  I  will  prepare  her  for  the  introduc- 
tion. 

Jones.  Very  good.  Meantime,  I  will  go  down  to  the  beach, 
and  endeavor  to  acquire  the  proper  pitch.  Let  me  see  :  "  Miss, 
will  you  oblige  me  — "  [Exit  Jones. 

Enter  Prudence. 

Prudence.  Good  morning,  cousin.  Who  was  that  speaking 
so  loudly] 

Snob.  Only  Jones.  Poor  fellow,  he  is  so  deaf  that  I  sup- 
pose he  fancies  his  own  voice  to  be  a  mere  whisper. 

Pru.    Why,  I  was  not  aware  of  this.     Is  he  very  deaf? 

Snob,    Deaf  as  a  stone  fence.     To  be  sure,  he  does  not  use  ■ 
an  ear-trumpet    any  more,  but  one  must  speak  excessively 
high.     Unfortunate,  too,  for  I  believe  he  's  iu  love. 

Pru.    In  love  !   with  whom  1 

Snob.    Can't  you  guess  ? 

Pru.    0  no  ;  I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea. 

Snob.  With  yourself !  He  has  been  begging  me  to  obtain 
him  an  introduction. 

Pru.  Well,  I  have  always  thought  him  a  nice-looking  young 
man.  I  suppose  he  woiild  hear  me  if  I  should  say  (speaks 
loudly),  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Jones  !  " 

Snob.    Do  you  think  he  would  hear  that  ? 

Pru.  W^eJl,  then,  how  would  (speaks  very  loudly}  "  Good-morn- 
ing, Mr.  Jones  !  "  —  how  would  that  do  ? 

Snob.  Tush  !  he  would  think  you  were  speaking  under 
your  breath. 

Pru.  (almost  screamimi).     "  Good  morning  ! " 

Snob.  A  mere  whisper,  my  dear  cousin.  But  here  he 
comes.     Now  do  try  and  make  yourself  audible. 

Enter  Jones. 

Snob,  (speaking  in  a  high  voice).  Mr.  Jones,  cousin.  Miss 
Winter,  Jones.     You  will  please  excuse  me  for  a  short  time. 

(He  retires,  hut  remains  where  he  can  view  the  speakers.) 

Jones  {spcakimj  shrill  and  loud).  Miss,  will  you  accept  these 
flowers  1     I  plucked  them  from  their  slumber  on  the  hill. 


206  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

PrU.   {in  an  equally  high  voice).      Really,  sir,  I  —  I  — 

Jones  (aside).  She  hesitates.  It  must  be  that  she  does 
not  hear  me.  [Increasing  his  tone.)  Miss,  will  you  accept  these 
flowers  —  FLOWERS  1     I  plucked  them  sleeping  on  the  hill  — 

HILL. 

Pru.  (also  increasing  her  tone).  Certainly,  ]\Ir.  Jones.  They 
are  beautiful  —  beau-u-tiful. 

Jones  (aside).  How  she  screams  in  my  ear  !  (Aloud.)  Yes, 
I  plucked  them  from  their  slumber —  slumber,  on  the  hill  — 

HILL. 

Pru.  (aside).  Poor  man,  what  an  effort  it  seems  for  him  to 
speak!  (Aloud.)  I  perceive  you  are  poetical.  Are  you  fond 
of  poetry  1  (Aside.)  He  hesitates.  I  must  speak  louder. 
(In  a  scream.)     Poetry  —  Poetry  —  POETRY  ! 

Jones  (aside).  Bless  me,  the  woman  would  wake  the  dead  ! 
(Aloud.)     Yes,  miss,  I  ad-o-r-e  it. 

Snob.  Glorious  !  glorious  !  I  w'onder  how  loud  they  can 
scream.     0  vengeance,  thou  art  sweet ! 

Pru.    Can  you  repeat  some  poetry  —  poetry  1 

Jones.    I  only  know  one  poem.     It  is  this  :  — 

You  'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age  —  age, 
To  speak  in  public  on  the  stage  —  stage. 

Pru.  Bravo  !  bravo  ! 

Jones.    Thank  you  !     Thank  — 

Pru.    Mercy  on  us  !     Do  you  think  I  'm  deaf,  sir  1 

Jones.    And  do  you  fancy  me  deaf,  miss  1     (Natural  tone.) 

Pru.    Are  you  not,  sir  1   You  surprise  me. 

Jones.  No,  miss.  I  was  led  to  believe  that  you  were  deaf. 
Snobbleton  told  me  so. 

Pru.    Snobbleton  !     Why,  he  told  me  that  you  were  deaf. 

Jones.  Confound  the  fellow  !  he  has  been  making  game 
of  us. 


THE   FRENCHMAN'S  MALADY.  207 


THE  FRENCHMAN'S  MALADY. 

Merchant  ;  Frenchman. 

Scene,  the  Merchant's  counting-room.    Enter  Frenchman. 

ERCHANT.     Good  morning,  sir  !     How  do  you  do  ? 
Frenchman.    Sick,  —  very  sick  ! 

Mer.    What 's  the  matter  1 

French.    De  times  is  de  matter. 

Mer.    Betimes  ?     What  disease  is  that  1 

French.    De  maladie  vat  break  all  de  merchants  ver  much. 

Mer.  Ah  !  the  times,  eh  %  Well,  they  are  bad,  very  bad, 
sure  enough  ;  bvit  how  do  they  affect  you  ] 

French.    Vy,  monsieur,  I  lose  de  confidence. 

Mer.    In  whom  ] 

French.    In  everybody. 

Mer.    Not  in  me,  I  hope  ? 

French.  Pardonnez-moi,  monsieur  ;  but  I  do  not  know  who 
to  trust  d  present,  when  all  de  merchants  break  several  times, 
all  to  pieces. 

Mer.    Then  I  presume  you  want  your  money  ? 

French.    Oui,  monsieur  ;  I  starve  for  want  of  VargenL 

Mer.    Can't  you  do  without  it  1 

French.    No,  monsieur,  I  must  have  him. 

Mer,   You  must  1 

French.  Oui,  monsieur.  I  did  put  in  your  hands  five  tousand 
dollair,  for  invest  him,  what  you  call.  You  have  pay  me  in- 
tairest  all  right,  but  I  want  ver  much  de  five  tousand  dollair, 
ver  much,  ver  much  ! 

Mer.    And  you  can't  do  without  it  1 

French.   No,  monsieur,  not  von  leetel  moment  longare. 

Mer.  (makes  out  a  check,  and  hands  to  Yk^-scvmk^).    There,  sir. 

French.    Vat  is  dis,  monsieur  % 

Mer.  a  check  for  five  thousand  dollars,  with  the  interest 
due. 

French,  (with  amazement).    Is  it  hon  ? 

Mer.    Certainly. 


208  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

French.    Have  you  V argent  in  de  bank  % 

Mer.    Yes,  to  be  sure. 

French.    And  it  is  parfaitement  convenient  to  pay  de  same  ? 

Mer.    Undoubtedly.     What  astonishes  you  1 

French.    Vy,  dat  you  have  got  him  in  dees  times. 

Mer.  0  yes ;  and  I  have  plenty  more.  I  owe  nothing  that 
I  cannot  pay  at  a  moment's  notice. 

French,  (perplexed).  Monsieur,  you  shall  keep  V argent  for 
me  some  leetel  year  longare. 

Mer.    Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  it. 

French.  Tout  au  contraire.  I  no  vant  de  Vargent.  I  vant 
de  grand  confidence.  Suppose  you  no  got  de  money,  den  I 
vant  him  ver  much.  Suppose  you  got  him,  den  I  no  vant  him 
at  all.      Vous  coniprenez,  eh  % 

Mer.   All  right,  sir. 


AN  UNSUCCESSFUL  ATTEMPT  TO  RAISE  THE  WIND. 

TiGGj  Pecksniff;  Sltme.* 

Scene,  the  har-room  of  the  Blue  Dragon. 

TIGG  {dragging  in  Pecksniff  by  the  collar).    You    were    eaves- 
dropping at  that  door,  you  vagabond  ! 
Pecksniff  {shaking  himself  free).    Where  is  Mrs.  Lupin,  I  won- 
der 1     Can  the  good  woman  possibly  be  aware  that  there  is  a 
person  here,  who  — 

T.    Stay  !    Wait  a  bit !     She  does  know.     What  then  1 
P.    What  then,  sir  ?  what  then  1     Do  you  know  that  I  am 
the  friend  and  relative  of  the  sick  gentleman  above  stairs'? 
That  I  am  his  protector,  his  guardian,  his  — 

*  TiGG  represents  the  shabby-genteel  in  its  last  stage  ;  Pecksniff,  a 
smooth,  well-dressed  man,  Mith  a  prodigious  collar  ;  Slyme,  a  miserable- 
looking  wretch,  worn  out  with  low  dissipation.  Tigg's  manner  is  dash- 
ing, independent,  and  highly  affected  ;  Pecksniff's,  grave  and  cold,  very 
much  constrained ;  Slyme's  is  dull  and  stupid,  indicating  partial  in- 
ebriety. 


AN  rNSUCCESSFVL  ATTEMPT  TO  RAISE  THE  WIND.   209 

T.  Wait  a  bit !  Perhaps  3'ou  are  a  cousiu,  —  the  cousin 
who  Uves  iu  this  place. 

P.    I  am  the  cousin  who  lives  in  this  place. 

T.    Your  name  is  Pecksniff  1 

P.    It  is. 

T.  {touching  his  hat).  I  am  proud  to  know  you,  and  I  ask  your 
pardon.  You  behold  in  me  one  who  has  also  an  interest  in 
that  gentleman  up  stairs.  Wait  a  bit.  {Pulling  off  his  hat,  and 
dropping  fiom  it  a  handful  of  dirti/  letters  and  broken  cigars;  and  selecting 
one  of  the  former,  which  he  hands  to  Pecksniff.)     Read  that  ! 

P.    This  is  addressed  to  Chevy  Slyme,  Esq. 

T.  Yoi;  know  Chevy  Slyme,  Esq.,  I  believe  1  Veiy  good  : 
that  is  my  interest  and  business  here. 

P.  {withdraiving  from  TiGG).  Now,  this  is  very  distressing,  my 
friend.  It  is  very  distressing  to  me  to  be  compelled  to  say 
that  you  are  not  the  person  you  claim  to  be.  I  know  Mr. 
Slyme,  my  friend.  This  will  not  do ;  honesty  is  the  best 
policy.     You  had  better  not,  you  had,  indeed. 

T.  Stop  !  Wait  a  bit !  I  understand  your  mistake,  and 
I  am  not  offended.  Why  ?  Because  it  is  complimentary. 
You  suppose  I  would  set  myself  up  for  Chevy  Slyme.  Sir, 
if  there  is  a  man  on  earth  whom  a  gentleman  would  feel 
proud  and  honored  to  be  mistaken  for,  that  man  is  Chevy 
Slyme.  For  he  is,  without  exception,  the  highest-minded,  the 
most  independent-spirited,  most  original,  spiritual,  classical, 
talented,  and  most  thoroughly  Shakespearian,  if  not  Miltonic, 
and  at  the  same  time,  most  disgustingly  unappreciated  dog  I 
know.  But,  sir,  I  have  not  the  vanity  to  attempt  to  pass  for 
Slyme.  Any  other  man  in  the  wide  world  I  am  equal  to. 
But  Slyme  is,  I  frankly  confess,  a  gi-eat  many  cuts  above  me. 
Therefore  you  are  wrong. 

P.   {holding  out  a  letter).     I  judged  from  this. 

T.  No  doubt  you  did.  But,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  the  whole  thing 
resolves  itself  into  an  instance  of  the  peculiarities  of  genius. 
Every  man  of  true  genius  has  his  peculiarity.  Sir,  the  pecu- 
liarity of  my  friend  Slyme  is  that  he  is  always  waiting  round 
the  corner.     He  is  perpetually  round  the  corner,  sir.     He  is 

N 


210  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

round  the  corner  at  this  instant.  'That  is  a  remarkably  cari- 
ous and  interesting  trait  in  Slyme's  character ;  and  whenever 
Styme's  life  comes  to  be  written,  that  trait  must  be  thor- 
oughly worked  out  by  his  biogi'apher,  or  society  will  not  be 
satisfied.     Observe  me,  society  will  not  be  satisfied. 

P.  (coughing  nervously) .     Hem! 

T.  Slyme's  biographer,  sir,  whoever  he  may  be,  must  apply 
to  me ;  or,  if  I  am  gone  to  that  what's-his-name  from  which 
no  thingumbob  comes  back,  he  must  apply  to  my  executors 
for  leave  to  search  among  my  papers.  I  have  taken  a  few 
notes,  in  my  poor  way,  of  some  of  that  man's  proceedings  — 
my  adopted  brother,  sir  —  which  would  amaze  you.  He  made 
use  of  an  expression,  sir,  on  the  fifteenth  of  last  month,  — 
when  he  could  not  meet  a  little  bill,  and  the  other  party  would 
not  renew, — which  would  have  done  honor  to  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  in  addi-essing  the  French  army. 

P.  And  pray  what  may  be  Mr.  Slyme's  business  here,  if 
I  may  be  permitted  to  inquire  ] 

T.  You  will  give  me  leave,  sir,  first  to  introduce  myself. 
My  name,  sir,  is  Tigg.  The  name  of  Montague  Tigg  will  per- 
haps be  familiar  to  you,  in  connection  with  the  most  remark- 
able events  of  the  peninsular  war. 

Pecksniff  shakes  his  head. 

T.  No  matter :  that  man  was  my  father,  and  I  bear  his 
name.  I  am  conseqviently  proud,  —  proud  as  Lucifer.  Excuse 
me,  one  moment.  I  desire  my  friend  Slyme  to  be  present  at 
the  remainder  of  this  confei*ence.  {Withdraws,  and  returns  followed 
by  Slyme,  who  looks  stupidly  at  Pecksniff,  and  Pecksniff  looks  coldly 
at  him.) 

T.  (pretending  to  address  Slyme,  who  has  been  whispering  in  his  ear, 
touching  his  elbow,  and  making  other  signs  to  him  to  ask  money  of  Pecksniff. 
Tigg  speaks  loud  enough  for  Mr.  Pecksniff  to  hear.)  Chiv,  I  shall  come 
to  that  presently.  I  act  upon  my  own  responsibility,  or  not  at 
all.  To  the  extent  of  such  a  trifling  loan  as  a  crown  piece,  to 
a  man  of  your  talents,  I  look  upon  Mr.  Pecksniff'  as  certain. 
0  Chiv,  Chiv!  you  are,  upon  my  life,  a  strange  instance  of 
the  little  frailties  that  beset  a  mighty  mind  !  If  there  had 
never  been  a  telescope  in  this  world,  I  should  have  been  quite 


AN  UNSUCCESSFUL  ATTEMPT  TO  RAISE  THE  WIND.     211 

certain,  from  my  observation  of  you,  that  there  were  spots  on 
the  sun  !  Well,  never  mind  !  Moralize  as  we  will,  the  world 
goes  on.  As  Hamlet  says,  Hercules  may  lay  about  him  with 
his  club,  in  every  possible  direction  ;  but  he  can't  prevent  the 
cats  from  making  a  most  intolerable  row  on  the  roofs  of  the 
houses,  or  the  dogs  from  being  shot,  in  the  hot  weather,  if  they 
go  about  the  streets  unmuzzled.  Life  's  a  riddle,  a  most  con- 
founded hard  riddle  to  guess,  Mr.  Pecksniff.  Like  that  cele- 
brated conundrum,  "  Why  is  a  man  in  jail  like  a  man  out  of 
jail  ] "  there  's  no  answer  to  it.  Chiv,  my  dear  fellow,  go  out 
and  see  what  sort  of  a  night  it  is.  (Sltme  ^roes  out.  Tigg  returns 
to  Pecksniff.)  We  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  the  little  eccen- 
tricities of  our  friend  Slyme.     You  saw  him  whisper  to  me  ? 

P.    I  did. 

T.    You  heard  my  answer,  I  think  1 

P.    I  did. 

T.  Five  shillings,  eh  1  Ah  !  what  an  extraordinary  fellow  ! 
— very  moderate,  too.  Five  shillings,  to  be  punctually  paid 
next  week  ;  that 's  the  best  of  it.     You  heard  that. 

P.    I  did  not. 

T.  No  !  That 's  the  cream  of  the  thing,  sir.  I  never  knew 
that  man  fail  to  redeem  a  promise  in  my  life.  You  're  not  in 
want  of  change,  are  you  1 

P.    No,  thank  you,  not  at  all ! 

T.  Just  so ;  if  you  had  been,  I  'd  have  got  it  for  you. 
{Whistles,  and  walks  about  with  an  air  of  unconcern.)  Pei'haps  you  'd 
rather  not  lend  Slyme  five  shillings  1 

P.    I  would  much  rather  not. 

T.  It  's  very  possible  you  may  be  right.  Would  you  en- 
tertain the  same  sort  of  objection  to  lending  me  five  shillings, 
now  1 

P.    Yes  :  I  could  n't  do  it,  indeed  ! 

T.   Not  even  half  a  crown,  perhaps  1 

P.    Not  even  half  a  crown. 

T.  Why,  then,  we  come  to  the  ridiculously  small  sum  of 
eighteen-pence.     Ha,  ha  ! 

P.    And  that  would  be  equally  objectionable. 


212  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

T.  {shaking  Pecksniff  hj  both  hands).  Sir,  I  protest  you  are  one 
of  the  most  consistent  and  remarkable  men  I  have  ever  met.  I 
desire  the  honor  of  your  better  acquaintance.  There  are  many 
little  characteristics  about  my  friend  Slyme,  of  which,  as  a 
man  of  strict  honor,  I  can  by  no  means  approve.  But  I  am 
prepared  to  forgive  him  all  these  slight  drawbacks  and  many 
more,  in  consideration  of  the  great  pleasure  I  have  this  day 
enjoyed  in  my  social  intercourse  with  you,  sir.  It  has  given 
me  a  far  higher  and  more  enduring  delight  than  the  successful 
negotiation  of  any  small  loan,  on  the  part  of  my  friend,  could 
possibly  have  imparted.  I  beg  leave,  sir,  to  wish  you  a  very 
good  evening.      {They  go  off  different  ways.) 


DR.  ARNOLD'S   PRESCRIPTION. 

Dr.  Gray  ;  Aunt  Sophy  ;  Felicia,  her  niece. 

Scene  I.  —  In  front  of  Aunt  Sophy's  house,  which  is  tastefully  decoi-ated 
with  vines  and  flower-pots. 

FELICIA  {alone).  Heigh-ho  !  Am  I  homesick,  or  am  I  not  1 
that 's  the  question.  It  is  five  weeks  since  I  left  the 
gayeties  of  city  life,  to  lounge  and  grow^  fat  in  this  out-of-the- 
way  place.  Almost  the  last  thing  mother  said  to  me  was, 
to  "  keep  a  diary."  Ha,  ha  !  what  an  idea  !  An  interesting 
set  of  pages  it  would  be,  —  so  full  of  incident !  Let  me  see  : 
rise  in  the  morning  at  six ;  breakfast  at  half  past  six ;  help 
Aunt  Sophy  with  the  dishes ;  hear  her  say,  "  Wonder  how 
many  eggs  the  hens  have  laid  !  "  take  my  hat  and  basket 
and  stroll  into  the  barn  to  visit  that  family  of  cacklers  ;  dis- 
turb their  equanimity  by  inspecting  their  sanctuaries ;  bring 
back  my  basket  of  eggs  into  the  kitchen,  place  them  on  the 
table  in  the  most  dutiful  manner,  and  hear  auntie  say,  "My 
dear,  would  you  like  fried  pork  and  eggs,  or  baked  beans  for 
dinner  1 "  Then  I  stroll  off  with  a  book  ;  I  know  nothing  till 
the  dinner-horn  sounds.  Then  a  nap ;  then  a  visit  to  the 
post-ofl&ce  ;  then  supper ;  then  helping  auntie  a  little  ;  then 


DR.   ARNOLD'S  PRESCRIPTION.  213 

bedtime.  Five  times  seven  are  thirty-five.  Well,  then,  thirty- 
five  repetitions  of  the  aforesaid  items  would  be  the  sum-total 
of  my  diary.  My  dear  mother,  a  charming  diary  I  could 
write  !  Worthy  of  publication  in  the  "  Atlantic  "  or  "Harper's." 
But  I  ought  to  add  something  to  my  sketch-book.  How 
pretty  the  river  looks,  winding  through  the  valley,  the  green 
slopes  on  either  side  !  I  mean  to  try  and  sketch  it.  {Takes 
her  skftch-booh,  and  draws.  Dr.  Gray  enters  unobsei'ved,  and,  (/lancing  over 
her  shoulder,  watches  her  dnncing  a  few  moments  without  speaking.) 

Dr.  Gray.  You  need  somewhat  heavier  touches  just  there, 
if  I  may  interfere.  Don't  you  see  how  black  the  shadows 
fall  ] 

Fel.  Dr.  Gray !  How  you  startled  me  !  How  dare  you 
look  over  my  shoulder,  sir  1     Don't  you  know  how  rude  it  is  1 

Dr.  G.    How  rude  is  it  ? 

Fel.  So  rude  that  if  I  were  n't  so  glad  to  see  you  I  should 
send  you  away.  Where  did  you  come  from  1  Did  you  rain 
down  with  the  sunbeams '? 

Dr.  G.  {smiles,  and  strokes  his  mustache  musingly).  Just  now  I 
came  from  Shell  Beach,  where  my  mother  and  sister  and  a  few 
friends  are  wasting  the  summer  hours ;  and  there  I  heard  that 
you  were  here, 

Fel.  How  nice  it  is  to  see  you  !  it  seems  like  old  times.  I 
was  just  on  the  point  of  getting  home-sick,  and  you  have 
cured  me.  Sha'  n't  we  go  up  to  the  house,  so  that  I  may  in- 
troduce you  to  Aunt  Sophy  1 

Dr.  G.  Unless  you  vote  against  it,  I  should  rather  stay 
here  the  little  time  I  have  to  stay ;  I  should  have  to  divide 
you  among  so  many  up  there. 

Fel.  And  I  being  so  insignificant,  you  think  there  would  n't 
be  enough  to  go  round  1  By  the  way,  where  do  you  mean  to 
settle,  doctor  1  When  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  talking  with 
you,  your  mind  was  perplexed  by  the  query. 

Dr.  G.  Yes.  What  would  you  advise  1  How  would  it  do 
to  settle  hereabouts "? 

Fel.  In  this  wilderness  1  Waste  your  sweetness  on  this 
desert  air,  and  practise  patience  instead  of  medicine  1     Be- 


214  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

sides,  I  heard  auntie  say  that  there  was  a  new  doctor  here 
already. 

Dr.  G.    Indeed  !    Did  she  mention  his  name  1 

Fel.  Yes ;  it 's  Dr.  Arnold  morning,  noon,  and  night.  If 
I  don't  take  his  doses,  I  have  a  chronic  dose  of  himself.  She 
sings  his  praises  loud  enough  to  make  his  fortune.  I  dare  say 
he  has  given  up  advertising.  He  cured  auntie  of  a  fever  when 
the  old  doctor  over  at  Shell  Beach  had  given  her  up. 

Dr.  G.    Then  you  have  n't  seen  him  1 

Fel.  No  ;  the  truth  is,  I'm  afraid  to  face  such  a  paragon. 
He  was  here  the  first  night  I  came,  and  auntie  begged  me  to 
go  down  and  see  him,  but  I  had  a  headache,  you  know. 
Travellers  always  have  headaches ;  it  's  one  of  their  perqui- 
sites. 

Dr.  G.  And  he  might  have  cured  it.  So  he  was  here  the 
first  day  you  came,  eh  ? 

Fel.  Yes  ;  and  he  was  coming  to-day,  so  I  took  my  sketch- 
book and  trudged  out  here.  I  don't  care  to  see  their  old 
country  doctors ;  they  must  be  stupid  enough. 

Dr.  G.    Oh  !  is  he  an  old  fellow  1 

Fel.  I  don't  know  ;  wears  a  wig,  perhaps,  and  green  gog- 
gles, and  takes  snuff.  He 's  a  bachelor,  at  least ;  for  auntie 
—  dear  old  goose  !  — suggested  that  it  would  be  ever  so  nice 
if  he  would  take  a  fancy  to  me,  in  order  that  we  might  live 
near  her.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  /  might  have  a  word 
to  say  in  the  bargain.  I  laughed  so  heartily  at  the  idea  that 
Aunt  Sophy  was  quite  put  out,  do  you  know,  and  told  me  at 
last  that  there  was  no  danger  of  my  doing  half  so  well  as  to 
marry  a  country  doctor.  I  hope  I  sha'  n't.  See,  I  've  found 
a  four-leaved  clover ! 

Dr.  G.    Which  means  good  luck. 

Fel.  Which  means  that  I  shall  put  it  over  the  front  door, 
and  trust  to  fate. 

Dr.  G.   In  the  shape  of  Dr.  Arnold  1 

Fel.    The  fates  forbid  ! 

Dr.  G.  Ah,  what  prejudices  you  women  cherish  !  Accord- 
ing to  your  own  acknowledgment  you  have  not  seen  this 


DR.   ARNOLD'S  PRESCRIPTION.  215 

doctor ;  according  to  the  opinion  of  your  friends  he  is  worth 
seeing  — 

Fel.    When  one  is  ill. 

Dr.  G.  And  yet  you  avoid  and  despise  his  shadow.  I  very 
much  doubt  if  you  do  not  have  him  in  your  cup  yet,  and  to 
some  purpose. 

Fel.  0,  you  disagreeable  man  !  You  mean  that  when  I  do 
see  him  I  shall  fall  in  love  with  him.  In  that  case  I  shall 
take  infinite  pains  to  avoid  him.  He 's  as  bad  as  the  Gorgon's 
head  ;  for  one  would  as  soon  be  turned  into  stone,  for  all  I 
know,  as  to  fall  iu  love  with  a  man  one  hates.  Besides,  if  he 
were  Adonis  himself,  I  should  say,  "  No,  I  thank  you,  my  pretty 
man,"  if  he  invited  me  to  share  this  wilderness  with  him. 

Dr.  G.  Ah  !  And  you  would  not  consent  to  live  here  on 
any  terms  ]     How  people  difter !     Now  /  like  it. 

Fel.    0,  it  does  very  well  for  a  summer's  vacation. 

Dr.  G.  And  nothing  more  1  You  think  that  there  is  n't  a 
possibility  of  my  persuading  anybody  to  share  my  cottage,  in 
case  I  should  make  up  my  mind  to  settle  here  ] 

Fel.  (aside.)  Who  is  he  going  to  ask  to  share  his  cottage? 
{Aloud.)  I  dare  say  you  might  find  soi7ie  one  who  would  n't  — 
object. 

Dr.  G.  But  not  Miss  Felicia  Saxon.  Well  (talcing  out  his  watch), 
it  's  time  I  was  off ;  five  o'clock.  Your  bugbear  must  be  gone 
before  this,  unless  he  stays  to  tea.  By  the  way,  send  me  word, 
will  you,  how  you  like  him,  and  who  comes  in  under  the  four- 
leaved  clover.  [Exit. 

Fel.  (following  him  with  her  eyes,  and  repeating).  "  But  not  !Miss 
Felicia  Saxon."  Why  does  he  take  it  for  granted  ?  If  he  wanted 
to  know,  why  did  he  not  ask  outright,  without  any  beating 
about  the  bush  %  How  could  I  tell  him  that  1  should  n't  mind 
if  only  he  were  here  too  ]  No,  he  must  have  been  joking ; 
he  must  have  been  thinking  of  some  one  else.  (Sighing  profound- 
ly,  and  picking  up  her  sketch-hooL)  There!  four-leaved  clover,  omen 
of  good  luck,  I  '11  put  you  there,  because  I  said  I  would  do  so 
(placing  it  over  the  door)  ;  but  I  have  little  faith  any  good  luck 
will  come  to  me.     I  wonder  whom  he  was  thinking  of !     [Exit. 


216  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Scene  II.  — Attnt  Sophy's  dining-room.     She  is  busy  setting  the  table. 

Aunt  Sophy.  Now  the  butter  and  the  apple-sarse,  then 
tea  '11  be  read}'.  (Sets  two  chairs.  Felicia  enters.)  Where  have 
you  been,  child  1  You  always  do  contrive  to  hide  yourself 
when  the  doctor  's  here.  Sit  down,  child.  I  '11  put  tea  right 
on.  (Adds  the  tea,  etc. )  Yes,  doctor  was  here,  and  asked  if  you 
were  well ;  and  I  told  him  you  were  well  enough  to  be  gali- 
vanting  over  the  neighborhood  all  the  afternoon. 

Fel.  He  wanted  to  give  me  a  dose  of  calomel,  I  suppose. 
I  hate  doctors'  stuffs,  and  doctors  ;  at  least  (remembering  an  ex- 
ception), at  least  most  of  them.  I  've  been  sketching  the  inter- 
val ;  I  have  n't  been  galivanting,  and  I  don't  know  what  it 
means. 

Aunt  S.  What  do  you  call  sketching  ?  Those  little  daubs 
of  lead-pencil  marks  1  Looks  as  if  the  crows  had  walked  over 
the  paper.  Dear  me  !  is  that  the  nonsense  folks  call  sketch- 
ing 1  You  'd  better  been  at  home  churning ;  it  's  a  sight  more 
profitable. 

Fel.  I  leave  that  for  country  doctors'  wives.  By  the  way, 
Aunt  Sophy,  your  Doctor  Arnold  wears  a  wig,  does  n't  he  1 

Aunt  S.  Mi/  Dr.  Arnold  !  When  you  see  him  you  will  wish 
he  was  yours.  What  if  he  does  wear  a  wig,  miss  %  Is  there 
anything  disgraceful  in  that  %    (Adjusting  her  aim  false  front.) 

Fel.  0  no  :  only  it  shows  that  he  's  no  chicken,  as  they 
say  ;  and  for  my  part,  I  would  rather  be  a  young  man's  slave 
than  an  old  man's  darling. 

Aunt  S.  Which  only  shows  your  bad  taste  and  inexperi- 
ence. But  you  need  n't  worry  :  young  or  old.  Dr.  Arnold 
would  n't  waste  a  thought  on  such  a  chit  as  you,  —  though 
you  might  thank  your  stars  if  he  should,  in  spite  of  forty 
wigs.      (  Chuckling  softly  behind  her  tea-urn.) 

Fel.  If  he  would  n't  waste  a  thought  on  me,  why  in  the 
woi'ld  do  you  try  to  make  my  mouth  water  1  I  'm  sure  /  don't 
want  to  lead  him  into  any  such  extravagance. 

Aunt  S.  We  '11  see,  my  gal,  —  we  '11  see  what  we  '11  see. 
Eat  your  supper  in  peace  now,  do.     Have  another  cup  o'  tea  ] 


DR.   ARNOLD'S   PRESCRIPTION.  217 

There  's  a  letter  for  ye  on  the  table  in  t'  other  room,  when 
ve  've  finished. 

Fel.  Is  there  1  Well,  you  'U  exciise  me,  please.  I  've  eaten 
quite  enough.  [Exit. 

AuxT  S.  Law,  now,  why  did  I  up  and  tell  her  about  that 
letter  in  such  a  hurry  Ir  She  never  eats  enough  to  keep  a 
mouse  alive.  (Puts  tea-things  on  a  waiter,  and  takes  them  to  the  kitchen. 
Felicia  returns  with  a  note.) 

Fel.    Dr.  Gray's  handwriting.    (Ope7is  the  note  and  reads.) 

"  Dear  Miss  Felicia,  —  Have  you  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Dr.  Arnold  yet  ?  —  poor  man  !  And  how  fares  it  with  the  four- 
leaved  clover  ?  I  am  delegated  to  present  you  with  my  sister's 
love  —  to  which  may  I  add  my  own  ?  —  and  to  request  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  at  Shell  Beach  any  fine  day  this  week.  I  should 
be  most  happy  to  caU  for  you,  but  duty  beckons  in  another  direc- 
tion. Yet  I  shall  try  to  give  myself  a  half-holiday,  shoidd  you  con- 
sent to  make  it  one. 

"  Hopefully  yours, 

"A.  L.  Gray." 

0,  I  should  so  like  to  go !  But  how  to  get  there  1  I  can't 
walk  that  distance,  and  all  the  farm-horses  are  at  work,  I  sup- 
pose. (Aunt  Sophy  appears  at  the  door.)  Dear  me  !  where 's  my 
godmother  that  she  can't  make  me  a  coach-and-six  out  of  the 
squash-vines  and  the  squash-bugs  1 

Aunt  S.    Where  do  you  want  to  go? 

Fel.   [hastily  putting  the  note  in  her  bosom).     Mrs.    Ames,    a   friend 

of  mine  and  mamma's,  wishes  me  to  spend  the  first  fine  day 
with  her  at  Shell  Beach, 

Aunt  S.  Perhaps  Dr.  Arnold  will  happen  along,  and  take 
you  in.  He  drives  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  on  his  visits,  and 
would  n't  think  anything  of  doing  a  body  a  good  turn. 

Fel.    I  'd  rather  stay  at  home. 

Aunt  S.   You  're  a  very  silly  girl. 

Fel.  Perhaps  so  ;  but  silly  girls  are  just  the  ones  who  like 
to  have  their  own  way.     Can't  you  send  me  to  Shell  Beach  1 

Aunt  S.  Well,  perhaps  Jones  will  harness  old  Jolly  and 
drive  you  over,  if  you're  set  upon  it,  and  are  up  early 
enough.  And  there  's  the  stage.  Go  over  in  the  stage,  and 
10 


218  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

I'll  send  Jones  and  Jolly  to  fetch  you  home.  That'll  be 
handiest. 

Fel.  0,  thank  you  !  You  are  the  best  of  aunts,  after  all,  if 
you  have  gone  wild  over  that  old  Dr.  Arnold.  I  dare  say  you 
can't  help  it ;  he  's  bewitched  you. 

Aunt  S.    Just  wait  till  he  bewitches  you. 

Fel.  (laughing).    Yes.     Just  wait.  [Exit  Felicia. 

Aunt  S.  That  'ere  gal  is  a  sly  puss.  There  's  no  coaxing 
her  with  milk  or  cream.  For  all  the  world  like  our  Tab. 
"  Tab  !  here.  Tab  !  "  says  I,  "  come  and  get  your  supper." 
Never  a  step  does  Marm  Tab  budge ;  but  sits  there  winking 
and  blinking  at  me,  as  if  she  was  perfectly  indifferent.  But 
I  sets  down  the  sasser  o'  milk,  I  goes  to  my  work;  first 
thing  I  know  the  sasser  's  clean.  So,  Miss  Felicia,  I  '11  just 
go  about  my  work.     I  '11  just  —  wait.  [Exit. 

Scene  III.  —  Shell  Beach. 

Dr.  G.  [looking  at  his  watch).  Past  the  hour  when  Miss  Feli- 
cia was  to  be  here.  She  may  not  come  !  She  goes  back  to 
the  city  so  soon,  I  wish  I  might  see  her.      Some  one  comes  ! 

(Telicia  enters,  jauntily  dressed  in  a  walking-suit  and  straw  hat.  Dr.  G. 
extends  to  her  both  hands.)  Welcome  to  Shell  Beach  !  My  mother 
and  Mrs.  Ames  are  waiting  to  be  introduced  to  you.  Shall 
we  linger  here  awhile,  or  shall  we  go  in  immediately  1 

Fel.  (carelessly).    As  you  please.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me. 

Dr.  G.  (aside).  Cool  enough,  for  a  summer's  day.  (Aloud.) 
And  have  you  not  met  Dr.  Arnold  yet  1  And  has  the  fated 
fairy  prince  not  entered  beneath  the  four-leaved  clover  1 
(Laughing.)  How  do  you  kiiow  what  will  happen  while  you  're 
away  1 

Fel.  When  the  fairy  prince  comes,  may  I  be  there  to  see  ! 
No,  I  have  n't  met  the  tiresome  old  doctor  yet,  though  auntie 
suggested  that  if  he  happened  along  I  might  ride  over  here 
with  him. 

Dr.  G.    But  he  did  n't  happen  along  ] 

Fel.  No,  thank  goodness !  I  took  the  stage  over.  Mr. 
Jones  is  coming  to  take  me  home. 


DR.    ARNOLD'S   PRESCRIPTION.  219 

Dr.  G.  !Mr.  Jones  1  Ah  !  I  don't  remember  hearing  you 
mention  him  before.  A  particular  friend  of  yours  1  Lawyer, 
doctor,  merchant,  thief?  He's  a  thief  if  he  comes  with  in- 
tent to  steal  my  little  friend  Felicia.     (  With  ill-concealed  curiosity.) 

Fel.  {aside).  Jealous,  eh  1  at  least,  this  savors  of  it.  {Aloud.) 
iMr.  Jones  and  I  are  on  very  good  terms,  that  is,  as  good  as 
the  circumstances  demand.     {Laughing.) 

Dr.  G.    Indeed  !    May  I  ask  if  he  is  a  resident  at  Farm-field  % 

Fel.    0  yes. 

Dr.  G.    Then,  of  course,  he  can  have  no  hope. 

Fel.    He  does  n't  seem  to  be  despairing,  however. 

Dr.  G.  Hoping  against  hope,  perhaps.  I  heard  of  a  Mr. 
Jones  who  is  teaching  drawing  in  the  West  Parish,  —  not 
v\-earing  a  wig,  but  whose  locks  are  silvered  with  the  frosts  of 
many  winters,  to  put  it  poetically;  perhaps  this  is  your 
friend  ] 

Fel.  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Jones  —  my  friend,  as  you  choose 
to  call  him  —  is  not  over  thirty,  with  hair  of  your  color,  and  a 
golden  mustache. 

Dr.  G. 

"  Distrust  that  man,  although  he  be  your  brother, 
AVhose  hair  is  one  color  and  his  mustache  another." 

Fel.  Be  still !  I  won't  have  Mr.  Jones  slandered.  He  haa 
a  figure  like  a  Titan ;  he  has  big  blue  eyes.  Don't  you  like 
blue  eyes  1 

Dr.  G.    No  ;  they  remind  me  of  crockery. 

Fel.  They  remind  me  of  sapphires  and  turquoises.  How- 
ever, he  has  an  aquiline  nose. 

Dr.  G.  And  a  bad  temper,  of  course.  In  short,  I  don't 
fancy  anything  I  hear  about  this  Mr.  Jones. 

Fel.    That  does  n't  signify,  so  long  as  my  Aunt  Sophy  does. 

Dr.  G.    0,  then  he  is  her  admii'e — 

Fel.    He  is  one  of  her  farm  hands,  if  you  please. 

Dr.  G.  Cruel  girl  I  I  sha'  n't  forgive  you  in  a  hurry.  Jones 
is  a  great  burden  off  my  mind.     What  possessed  you  1 

Fel.  One  likes  to  make  believe  have  a  lover  once  in  a 
while,  you  know. 


220  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Dr.  G.  What 's  the  use  of  making  believe  when  the  real- 
ity 's  staring  you  in  the  face  1 

Fel.  0,  make-believe  lovers  are  n't  so  troublesome  as  real 
ones. 

Dr.  G.  I  suppose  not.  They  don't  ask  you  to  live  in  the 
backwoods  with  them. 

Fel.  I  hope  not.  Why  is  he  always  harping  upon  living 
in  the  country  1    (Aside.) 

Dr.  G.  I  suppose,  now,  that  no  one  could  persuade  you  to 
such  a  sacrifice  ] 

Fel.    I  hope  no  one  wiU  try.     (Lq/iihj.) 

Dr.  G.  Well  (ajier  a  pause),  when  I  marry,  I  hope  my  wife 
will  love  nature. 

Fel.  I  should  rather  she  would  love  me,  if  I  were  you 
{archil/).  But  wasn't  it  a  jokel  My  drawing-master  used  to 
say  to  me,  "  You  are  de  most  great  big  lover  of  de  Nature, 
Mees  Felicite,  she  do  have ;  you  do  show  it  "dn  de  every 
touch  !  " 

Dr.  G.    He  was  a  flatterer. 

Fel.  I  thank  you.  Nobody  can  bring  such  an  accusation 
against  you.  (A  pause.)  I  thinlv  we  had  better  go  and  speak 
to  your  mother.  (Somewhat  crestfallen.)  It  must  be  almost  time 
for  Mr.  Jones  to  come  for  me. 

Dr.  G.  0,  not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope.  I  should  give  myself 
the  pleasure  of  taking  you  home,  but  I  have  an  engagement. 

Fel.    What  a  pity  !  (/or(7e«(>i9  ^erse//!)     Where  are  you  going  1 

Dr.  G.    To  see  Miss  Atherton. 

Fel.  Oh  !  (involuntarily ;  then  biting  her  lips.)  Is  she  — is  she  as 
beautiful  as  ever  1 

Dr.  G.    Quite  as  beautiful.     I  am  quite  anxious  about  her. 

Fel.  It  is  more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  bear  (aside).  I 
thought  (faltering),  —  I  thought  that  was  all  over. 

Dr.  G.  No,  there  has  been  a  relapse  ;  and  that,  you  know, 
often  proves  fatal.  (Felicia  staggers.)  What  is  the  matter.  Miss 
Felicia  1     Can  I  do  anything  for  you  1 

Fel.  No,  thank  you  ;  nothing  is  the  matter.  I  —  (putting 
her  hand  to  her  head)  —  I  felt  a  sudden  pain  in  my  head ;  that  is 
all. 


DR.   ARNOLD'S   PRESCRIPTION.  221 

Dr.  G.  Come  in  and  see  my  mother,  and  rest.  You  look 
very  tired. 

Fel.  Thank  you  ;  if  you  '11  excuse  me,  I  '11  go  home.  I  am 
not  feeling  very  well. 

Dr.  G.   You  must  allow  me  to  accompany  you. 

Fel.  No,  I  thank  you.  I  can  get  along  very  well  alone. 
(He  follows  her.)  Indeed,  Dr.  Gray,  1  prefer  to  go  alone.  Good 
day.  [Exit. 

Dr.  G.  So,  so  !  what  does  all  this  mean  1  A  pretty  kiud 
of  story  I  shall  liave  to  make  up  to  my  mother,  to  account 
for  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the  young  lady.  She 
looked  charming  when  she  first  came,  —  rosy  as  Hebe  her- 
self. What  could  have  made  her  turn  pale  so  suddenly  % 
There  must  have  been  a  mental  disturbance.  What  were 
we  talking  about]  I  remember,  Miss  Atherton  ;  and  I  said 
I  was  feeling  anxious  about  her.  Could  that  have  troubled 
her]  I  dare  not  believe  it.  But  I  must  go  and  apologize 
to  my  mother  for  the  nonappearance  of  her  guest.        [Exit. 

Scene  IV.  —  A  room  in  Aunt  Sophy's  house. 

Aunt  S.  I  should  like  to  know  what  on  airth  has  come 
over  our  Felicia.  It  did  n't  do  her  any  good  to  go  junketiug 
over  to  the  beaches.  She  does  n't  care  anything  about  read- 
ing her  books  ;  and  here  's  her  sketching,  as  she  calls  it,  not 
touched.  She  's  lost  her  appetite,  too  ;  and  that 's  a  bad  sign. 
No  matter  what  I  cook  up,  she  does  n't  care  a  fig  for  it.  The 
child's  sick.  Like  as  not  her  liver  's  out  of  order ;  folks'  livers 
is  the  peskiest  things  to  keep  a  running.  I  don't  like  to  have 
nobody's  life  on  my  mind  ;  so  I  '11  just  send  round  for  Dr. 
Arnold,  and  he  '11  do  the  right  thing  for  her.  Here  she 
comes,  now,  as  dumpty  as  you  please. 

Felicia  enters  slowli/,  and  falls  listlessly  on  the  lounge,  vnth  a  book  in  her  hand. 
Aunt  Sophy  watches  her  a  few  moments. 

Aunt  S.    What  are  you  readin',  child  ] 
Fel.    Tennyson. 

Aunt  S.  That  ain't  to  the  p'int.  Read  out  something,  so  I 
can  hear  what 's  afore  your  eyes  this  minute. 


222  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Fel. 

"  0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !     0  the  barren,  barren  shore  !  " 
Dr.  G.  appears  just  outside  the  door.     Aunt  S.  runs  to  meet  him. 

Aunt  S.  There  !  Dr.  Arnold,  I  'm  right  glad  to  see  your 
face  and  eyes  ! 

Fel.    That  horrid  Dr.  Arnold  !     I  won't  see  him  ! 

Aunt  S.  I  've  been  worried  out  of  my  night's  sleep  along 
of  this  child,  and  her  folks  a  hundred  miles  away.  I  've  given 
her  herb-tea  and  peppermint,  and  they  did  n't  do  her  no  more 
good  than  so  much  water.  Law  bless  you,  if  she  was  love- 
sick, she  could  n't  be  worse  off,  with  no  relish  for  her  vic- 
tuals. Ever  since  she  went  over  to  the  beach  to  see  them 
Ameses,  whoever  they  may  be  — 

Felicia  tries  to  make  her  escape  from  the  room.    Dr.  G.  overtakes  her,  grasp- 
incj  her  shoulder.     She  turns  round,  confronting  Dr.  G. 

Dr.  G.  Whither  away.  Miss  Felicia,  before  I  've  so  much  as 
felt  your  pulse  ]  Come,  how  do  you  like  Dr.  Arnold,  at  your 
service  1  What  do  you  think  of  his  green  goggles  ]  How  does 
his  wig  fit,  think  you  1 

YEh.  {amazed).  Dr.  Gray !  Dr.  Arnold !  Which?  How]  I 
don't  understand.     I  thought  — 

Aunt  S.  Dr.  Arnold  Gray,  you  little  goose.  I  thought  every- 
body knew  that.  You  see  there  's  an  old  Dr.  Gray  over  to 
Shell  Beach,  and  he  is  n't  no  sort  of  a  favorite,  and  so  we  've 
got  into  the  way  of  calling  this  one  Dr.  Arnold,  to  distinguish, 
so  when  we  send  for  the  doctor  they  sha'  n't  get  the  wrong 
one.  There,  I  believe  to  my  heart  I  smell  my  sass  a-burning; 
just  like  Mary  Jane  to  be  talking  to  the  men  folks  out  the 
window  and  letting  everything  go  to  ruin  !  You  '11  prescribe 
all  right  for  her  without  me,  doctor?  [Exit. 

Dr.  G.    Yes,  if  she  '11  take  my  prescription. 

Fel.    What  is  it  ? 

Dr.  G.  It  is  —  myself  You  see,  I  should  n't  dare  to  pre- 
scribe so  boldly,  but  that  I  am  convinced  I  'm  your  Fate.  I 
came  in  under  the  four-leaved  clover. 

Yeu  {laughing).  So  you  did.  Has  Miss  Atherton —  {Draw- 
ing away  from  the  doctor's  arms.) 


BOUND   FOR   DETROIT.  223 

Dr.  G.  Yes,  she  has  quite  recovered ;  she  rode  out  to-day 
for  the  first  time. 

Fel.    Then  she  has  been  ill. 

Dr.  G.  After  getting  over  a  fever  she  had  a  relapse.  I  be- 
lieve I  told  you  before.     {Impatienth/.) 

Fel.  I  believe  you  did  ;  but  I  thought,  —  I  thought  that  it 
was  you  who  had  a  relapse.  Thank  you,  Dr.  Arnold,  I  will 
take  your  prescription. 


P 


BOUND   FOR  DETROIT. 

Pat  ;  Clerk  ;  Agent. 
Scene,  a  railroad  ticket  -office. 
AT.    Shure,  is  this  the  road  to  Da-fhroit  ? 


Clerk.    Yes  ;  send  you  right  through  on  the  railroad. 

Pat.  Shure,  it  's  the  rale  road  I  mane,  an'  none  o'  thim 
chatin'  turnpikes. 

Cl.  You  want  to  go  by  the  Grand  Trunk  1 

Pat.  Divil  a  bit !  I  've  no  clothes  fur  a  tnink,  let  alone 
money  fur  the  buyin'  uv  wun. 

Cl.    Well,  you  want  to  go  to  Detroit  ] 

Pat.    Shure,  I  do. 

Cl.    Which  line  will  you  take  ? 

Pat.  Och  !  any  line,  shure  ;  a  fish-line  for  a  throut  or  two, 
perhaps. 

Cl.    No,  no  !  how  wonld  you  like  to  go,  —  which  way  1 

Pat.  How  wud  I  like  to  go  1  Shure,  like  a  gintlemon,  an' 
the  same  way  me  cousin  Mick  Dolan  wint. 

Cl.    And  what  way  was  thati 

Pat.    Shure,  he  said  it  was  a  mighty  quick  way. 

Cl.  Then  you  want  a  ticket  on  the  express  line.  Give  me 
ten  dollars. 

Pat.    Tin  dollars  !     What  wud  I  give  yees  tin  dollars  fur  ? 

Cl.    For  your  ticket  by  the  Express. 

Pat.  Shure,  it 's  no  express  I  warnt  at  arl ;  it 's  the  way  to 
Da-throit. 


224  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Cl.  I  know  that ;  but  there  are  three  "  ways,"  as  you  call 
'em,  —  Express,  Trunk  Line,  and  Central.  What  line  will 
you  take  ] 

Pat.  (puzzled).    Ah,  —  eh"? 

Cl.  (leaning  over  counter).  Come,  my  good  fellow,  what  will  you 
takel 

Pat.  (glancing  at  a  big  ink-bottle  that  stands  on  the  counter).  Shure,  I  '11 
take  a  dhrop  o'  whiskey,  if  it 's  the  same  to  yure  honor. 

Agent.  Here,  you  stand  aside,  please  !  I  '11  find  out  what 
the  fellow  's  after.  —  You  want  to  go  to  Detroit  ] 

Pat.    You  may  say  that. 

Ag.    And  you  want  to  buy  a  ticket  1 

Pat.    Divil  a  bit. 

Ag.    What  do  you  want,  then  1 

Pat.    Shure,  I  warnt  to  know  the  way  to  Da-throit. 

Ag.    Well,  buy  a  ticket,  and  that  will  shoiv  you  the  way. 

Pat.    But  would  n't  yure  honor  show  me  the  way  1 

Ag.    But  how  can  you  get  there  without  the  ticket  1 

Pat.    Shure,  /  mane  to  walk. 


BILL  WAINWRIGHT'S  ADVENTURE. 

A  BuMMEK ;  A  Traveller  ;  Clerk  or  the  Store  ;  Idlers  of  the 

Town. 

Scene,  the  veranda  or  porch  of  a  country  store. 

BUMMER.  You  fellers  hev'  bin  tellin'  some  whappers  ; 
but  none  uv  'em  ain't  a  parin'  to  what  happint  to  Bill 
Wainwright  wunst,  an'  it  's  true,  too. 

Traveller  (inquiringly).   Ah] 

Bum.  Bill  was  a  private  in  the  Fust  Tennessee  Ridgmint 
when  they  was  in  Mexico.  One  night  he  was  on  guard  at  a 
place  whar  his  beat  was  n't  more  'n  twenty  feet  long,  but  was 
a  most  petikler  post,  on  account  it  was  at  a  ford  whar  the 
innimy  mought  surprise  the  hull  army  ef  the  sentry  did  n't 
keep  his  eye  peeled. 


BILL   WAINWRIGHT'S  ADVENTURE.  225 

TraV.  {faintly  interested).    Yes  1 

Bum.  Well,  Bill,  he  marched  up  an'  down,  keepin'  a  bright 
lookout,  ixspishly  on  the  crick.  All  to  wunst  he  seed  su'thiu' 
comin'  outen  the  water, 

TraV.   [more  interested) .    Ha! 

Bum.  He  tuck  a  good  squar  look,  for  he  had  strekt  orders 
not  to  fire  on  no  account,  onless  the  Mexicans  war  approachiu'. 
The  denied  thing  wobbled  outen  the  water,  an'  then  he  seed 
it  was  a  crowdin'  big  alligator,  more  'n  fawty  foot  long. 

Trav.  {quite  interested.)     Well  % 

Bum.  I  tell  yer  he  was  in  an  awful  fix.  He  dusn't  fire,  be- 
kase  the  alligator  was  n't  one  o'  them  yaller-bellied  Mexicans ; 
an'  he  dusn't  run  away  an'  desart  his  post,  bekase  that  was 
death  by  the  artickles  o'  war.  So  all  he  could  do  was  to  jab 
^he  varmint  with  his  bagnet.  But,  bless  youi"  soul,  't  wa'  n't  o' 
no  use  ! 

Trav.  {excited).    Nol 

Bum.  No,  sir  !  The  cretur's  hide  was  as  thick  an'  hard  as 
/awty  sides  o'  sole-leather,  an'  the  bagnet  busted  in  two.  Then 
fhe  alligator  fetched  him  a  wipe  with  his  tail,  an'  the  fust  thing 
Ae  knowed  he  knowed  nothin'.  Jest  then  the  relief  came  up  ; 
^ut  it  was  too  late.  The  alligator  had  swallowed  Bill  right 
down,  an'  the  way  they  knowed  it  was  him,  they  seed  the  butt- 
eeud  of  Bill's  muskit  in  the  jaws  of  the  animil  as  he  dove  into 
the  crick. 

Trav.  I  don't  doubt  the  story ;  but  I  wonder  how  you 
know  all  the  particulars  so  well.     Were  you  on  the  relief? 

Bum.    No,  I  was  n't  nuther. 

Trav.    How  did  you  learn  all  the  facts  % 

Bum.  How  did  I  lam  the  fax  ]  Ef  you  '11  order  the  cider 
I  '11  tell  yer. 

Trav.  Certainly.  —  Mr.  Clerk,  let  this  gentleman  have  a 
^ood  glass  of  cider,  and  I  '11  pay  for  it. 

Bum.    Yere  's  yer  good  health,  an'  more  like. you  to  come  to 
town  frekwcntly.    Well,  stranger,  —  ah  !  that 's  smackin'  good 
cider,  —  well,  yer  see,  the  fact  is,  —  I  'm  Bill  Wainweight. 
10*  o 


226  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 


A  FAMILY  JAR. 

John  Brooke  ;  Meg  Brooke,  his  wife;  Mr.  Scott  ;  Lottt,  a  Servant. 

Scene  I.  —  A  room  in  Meg's  house.  Meg,  arrayed  in  a  dainty  morning- 
dress,  a  bit  of  a  muslin  cap  on  her  head,  is  engaged  in  putting  the  room 
to  rights,  and  dusting. 

MEG.  Yes !  I  am  determined  to  be  a  model  house- 
keeper !  Every  room  shall  always  be  in  the  most  per- 
fect order.  No  dust,  no  fly-specks,  from  one  end  of  the  house 
to  the  other.  Dear  John  loves  order  so  well !  Bless  his 
heart !  What  won't  I  do  to  please  him  1  He  shall  find  home 
a  paradise.  He  shall  always  see  me  with  a  smiling  face.  No 
matter  what  happens  while  he  is  gone,  or  how  much  out  of 
sorts  I  may  feel,  when  I  know  it  is  time  to  expect  him,  I 
shall  take  care  to  look  my  prettiest,  and  have  a  kiss  of  wel- 
come for  him.  He  shall  always  find  a  good  table,  too.  That 
is  so  important.  He  shall  fare  sumptuously  every  day;  so 
that  he  will  declare  he  never  knew  what  good  living  was, 
when  he  had  to  depend  on  those  vile  restaurants.  —  Here  he 
comes  now,  all  ready  to  go  down  town. 

Enter  John,  rceai'ing  a  thin  overcoat,  hat  in  hand. 

John.    I  am  off,  dear  ! 

Meg.    0,  must  you  go  so  soon  1 

John.  Yes,  dear.  I  ought  to  have  gone  ten  minutes  ago. 
How  charming  you  look  this  morning  !  You  don't  find  house- 
keeping a  great  bugbear,  do  you  1 

Meg.  I  guess  I  don't !  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  what  peo- 
ple mean  by  making  such  a  talk  about  the  difficulties  of 
house-keeping.  It  is  only  fun  to  me.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
you  are  always  so  kind  and  considerate. 

John.  Do  you  think  so  ]  Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  hear  you 
say  so,  at  any  rate.  Perhaps  you  may  not  always  think  so ; 
for  instance,  when  I  might  chance  to  meet  a  friend,  and  ask 
him  home  to  dinner,  and  you  know  nothing  about  — ■ 


A   FAMILY   JAR.  227 

Meg.  Now,  John,  dear !  did  you  ever  come  home  and  find 
me  looking  otherwise  than  you  would  have  me  look,  should 
half  a  dozen  friends  come  in  unexpectedly  ]  Or  should  you 
ever  have  been  ashamed  of  our  table  since  we  were 
married  ? 

JoHX.  No,  Meg.  I  must  say  you  have  surpassed  my 
expectations  in  this  respect.  But  I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  be  shy  at  the  idea  of  entertaining  strangers,  for  fear 
everything  on  the  table  should  not  be  "0.  K." 

Meg.  My  husband  shall  always  feel  free  to  bring  a  friend 
home  whenever  he  likes.  I  shall  always  be  prepared.  There 
shall  be  no  flurry,  no  scolding,  no  discomfort,  but  a  neat 
house,  a  cheerful  wife,  and  a  good  dinner.  John,  dear,  never 
stop  to  ask  my  leave.  Invite  whom  you  please,  and  be  sure 
of  a  welcome  from  me  ! 

John  (aside).  How  charming  to  hear  her  talk  thus  !  It  is 
a  blessed  thing  to  have  a  superior  wife !  (Aloud.)  I  must  go 
now.  ( Giring  her  a  parting  salute.)  Shall  I  send  home  veal  or 
mutton  for  dinner  1 

Meg,  Beef  to  roast,  dear,  for  to-day;  and  any  vegetable 
you  may  happen  to  fancy.  Would  you  like  an  oyster- 
soup,  too?  If  so,  stop  in  and  order  home  a  quart  of 
oysters.  Only  a  quart ;  that  will  be  sufficient.  0,  something 
more  !  Have  sent  at  once  —  at  once,  remember  !  —  a  dozen 
or  so  of  little  jars,  each  holding  about  a  pint.  Our  cur- 
rants are  all  spoiling.  I  must  make  some  into  jelly  this  very 
day. 

John.  All  right.  I'll  remember.  Beef — vegetables  — 
oysters  —  and  jelly-jars. 

;Meg.    And  be  sure  and  have  the  little  jars  come  at  once ! 

John.    Yes.     Good-by,  dear  ! 

Meg.  Good-by!  (Throicing  a  kiss  ajler  him.  E.vit  John.)  Now 
I  must  finish  dusting  this  room,  and  then  I  '11  rim  up  stairs 
and  change  my  dress,  and  put  on  a  big  calico  apron.  I 
must  have  that  jelly  on  at  once,  so  as  to  have  it  out  of  the 
way  in  season  for  dinner. 


228  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR  DL\LOGUES. 


ScEN'E  IL*  —  In  front  of  Meg's  house,  which  is  closed,  and  curtains  down, 
as  if  no  one  lived  there.  The  doorsteps  have  a  neglected  appearance.  En- 
ter JoHX  Brooke  and  Scott. 

JoHX.  I  am  so  glad  you  happened  along  to-day,  Scott ! 
Now  you  '11  see  what  comfort  there  is  in  married  life,  and  in 
having  a  little  home  of  one's  own.  If  I  can  only  tempt  you 
into  giving  up  bachelordom,  I  shall  think  I  have  done  a  good 
day's  work,  —  eh,  Scott  1 

Scott  (smiling).  I  am  ready  to  be  tempted,  if  I  can  be  as 
lucky  a  fellow  as  you  seem  to  be. 

JOHX  (looking  in  surprise  at  the  closed  windows).  Why,  what  does 
this  mean]  (rnes  fAe  c?oor.)  Front  door  locked,  too.  I '11  wager 
itjias  n't  been  opened  this  morning.  (Pushing  some  mud  off  the  step 
with  the  toe  of  his  boot.)  I  'm  afraid  something  has  happened  ! 
Just  amuse  yom-self  in  the  garden  a  minute,  Scott,  while  I 
look  up  !Mrs.  Brooke.     (They  leave  the  stage  in  opposite  directions.) 

ScEXE  III.  —  Meg's  kitchen  in  great  disorder.  On  the  table  several  little 
jelly-pots  on  a  waiter,  partly  filed  with  currant  juice.  A  kettle  on  the  floor ; 
another  on  the  fire.  Lottt  standing  by  the  table,  calmly  eating  bread-and- 
butter  and  currant  juice.  Meg  sits  sobbing  dismally,  icith  her  apron  over 
her  head.     Scott  is  seen  looking  slyly  through  the  window. 

John  (rushing  in).    My  dearest  girl,  what  is  the  matter? 

Meg.  0  John,  I  am  so  tired,  and  hot,  and  cross,  and  wor- 
ried !  I  've  been  at  it  till  I  'm  all  worn  out.  Do  come  and 
help  me,  or  I  shall  die  !     (Throwing  herself  on  John's  breast.) 

John.  \Yhat  worries  you,  dear]  Has  anything  dreadful 
happened ] 

Meg    (despairingly).     Yes. 

John.  Tell  me  quick,  then.  Don't  cry.  I  can  bear  any- 
thing better  than  that.     Speak  out,  love  !     What  is  it  ] 

;Meg.  The  —  jelly  won't  jell  —  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  do ! 

John  (laughing  heartily).      Is  that  aU  ]     Fling  it  out  of  the 

*  In  cases  where  it  is  inconvenient  to  make  changes  of  scenery  this 
scene  may  be  omitted. 


A   FAMILY   JAR.  229 

window,  and  don't  bother  any  more  about  it.  I  11  buy  you 
quai-ts  if  you  want  it ;  but  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  have  hys- 
terics, for  I  've  brought  Jack  Scott  home  to  dinner,  and  — 

^Ieg  (casting  John  off,  clasping  her  hands  with  a  tragic  gesture,  and 
falling  into  a  chair).  A  man  to  dinner,  and  everything  in  a  mess  ! 
John  Brooke,  how  could  you  do  such  a  thing  1 

John.  Hush,  he  's  in  the  garden  !  I  forgot  the  confounded 
jelly  ;  but  it  can't  be  helped  now.  {Sun-eying  the  room  with  an 
ansious  eye.) 

Meg  (petulantly).  You  ought  to  have  sent  word,  or  told  me 
this  morning ;  and  you  ought  to  have  remembered  how  busy 
I  was  !  • 

John.  I  did  n't  know  it  this  morning,  and  there  was  no 
time  to  send  word,  for  I  met  him  on  the  way  out.  I  never 
thought  of  asking  leave,  when  you  have  always  told  me 
to  do  as  I  liked.  I  never  tried  it  before,  and  hang  me  if  I 
ever  do  again  !     (  With  an  aggrieved  air.) 

Meg.  I  should  hope  not !  Take  him  away  at  once.  I 
can't  see  him ;  and  there  is  n't  any  dinner. 

John.  Well,  I  like  that !  Where  's  the  beef  and  vegetables 
I  sent  home,  and  the  pudding  you  promised  1 

Meg.  I  had  n't  time  to  cook  anything ;  I  meant  to  dine  at 
mother's.  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  was  so  busy.  (Beginning  to  be  in  tears 
again.) 

John.  It 's  a  scrape,  I  acknowledge ;  but  if  you  will  lend 
a  hand,  we  '11  pull  through,  and  have  a  good  time  yet.  Don't 
cry,  dear,  but  just  exert  3'ourself  a  bit,  and  knock  us  up 
something  to  eat.  We  're  both  as  hungry  as  hunters,  so  we 
sha'  n't  mind  what  it  is.  Give  us  the  cold  meat,  and  bread  and 
cheese  ;  we  won't  ask  for  jelly. 

Meg  (touched  by  his  johe,  and  losing  patience).  You  must  get  your- 
self out  of  the  scrape  as  best  you  can.  I  'm  too  used  up  to 
"  exert "  myself  for  any  one.  It 's  like  a  man,  to  propose 
a  bone  and  vulgar  bread  and  cheese  for  company.  I  won't 
have  anything  of  the  sort  in  my  house.  Take  that  Scott  up 
to  mother's,  and  tell  him  I'm  away,  sick,  dead,  —  anything. 
I  won't  see  him,  and  you  two  can  laugh  at  me  and  my  jelly 


230  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

as  much  as   you  like ;    you  won't  have  anything  else  here. 

(Defiantly.  Then,  casting  away  her  pinafore,  she  precipitately  leaves  the 
room. ) 

John  (looking  after  her,  and  biting  his  lips  voith  indignation).  It  is 
n't  fair  to  tell  a  man  to  bring  folks  home  any  time,  with 
perfect  freedom ;  and  when  he  takes  you  at  your  word,  to 
flare  up  and  blame  him,  and  leave  him  in  the  lurch  to  be 
laughed  at  or  pitied.  No,  by  George,  it  is  n't !  And  Meg 
shall  know  it  too.  But  it  won't  do  to  stand  here  and  talk, 
with  Scott  waiting  outside  there,  hungry  as  a  bear.  Here, 
Lotty,  straighten  matters  out  a  little.  Throw  away  all 
your  sweet  stuff,  and  hide  the  pots. 

Lotty.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.    Now  give  us  a  clean  table-cloth. 

Lotty.    Yes  —  sir.     (John  helps  her  adjust  it  on  the  table.) 

John.    So,  —  that 's  right,  is  n't  it  1 

Lotty.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.  What  on  earth  ails  my  feef?  They  stick  to  the 
floor  as  if  they  meant  to  grow  there.  (Looks  at  the  soles  of  his 
boots.)  Currant  jelly,  by  jingo  !  (Lottt  covers  her  mouth  to  sup- 
press a  laugh.)  What  a  mess  to  get  a  fellow  into  !  Lotty,  can't 
you  get  a  dish-cloth,  —  towel,  —  floor-rag,  —  anything,  to  wipe 
up  a  little  ] 

Lotty.  Yes  —  sir.  (Brings  in  a  mop,  and  quickly  passes  it  over  the 
floor.  John  in  the  mean  time  takes  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket,  tears  it, 
and  wipes  the  jelly  off  the  bottom  of  his  boots.) 

John.  There  !  (throwing  the  paper  into  the  fire)  that  will  do ! 
Now,  what  is  there  in  the  house  to  eat  1  Where  do  you  keep 
the  victuals  1     (Lotty  opens  the  closet  door.) 

Lotty.    Not  much  in  there,  sir. 

John.  I  '11  warrant  it  !  ( Takes  out  a  cold  bit  of  lamb  ;  smells  of  it.) 
That 's  eatable.     Put  that  on. 

Lotty.    Yes  —  sir. 

John  (taking  out  another  plate  with  some  once-carved  bones  and  bits  of 
ham  on  it).     Put  that  on. 

Lotty.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.     Here  's  some  cold  potatoes.     Put  them  on. 

Lotty.    Ye-es  —  sir. 


A  FAMILY   JAR.  231 

John.    What 's  this  ? 

LoTTT.    Pudding-sauce. 

JoHX.    Put  it  on. 

LoTTY.    Sir  1 

John  {impatiently).    Put  it  on  ! 

LoTTY  (aside).    Well,  I  never ! 

John  {taking  out  a  covered  dish  and  opening  it).  Cheese.  Put 
it  on. 

LoTTY.    Yes  —  sir. 

John  {taking  out  a  plate  of  broken  bread).  Is  this  the  best  bread 
you  have  in  the  house  ] 

LoTTY.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.    Put  it  on. 

LoTTY  {aside).  0,  mercy !  what  would  Missis  say  if  she 
only  knew  1 

John.  Now  we  've  got  the  royal  feast  spread ;  I  must  call 
in  the  invited  guest. 

LoTTY.    Sir  ] 

John  {glancing  at  table).  You  don't  suppose  we  are  going  to 
eat  with  our  fingers,  do  you  %  Put  on  some  plates,  and  knives 
and  forks. 

LoTTY.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.  Hang  it  all  !  ( Goes  out  and  brings  in  ScOTT.)  Walk  right 
in.  {Slapping  his  back.)  Make  yourself  at  home.  I  am  sorry  I 
cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  my  better 
half  The  truth  is,  —  she  —  is  n't  well  —  has  met  with  an 
accident.     (Lottt  struggles  to  suppress  an  explosive  laugh.) 

ScoTT.    I  am  sorry.      Nothing  serious,  I  hope  1 

John.  0  —  no  ;  accidents  will  happen  in  the  best  of  fam- 
ilies, you  know.  {Aside.)  Won't  I  give  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind  ?  (Aloud.)  Mrs.  Brooke  is  the  most  hospitable  of  host- 
esses, —  always  delighted  to  see  her  friends,  —  as  she  would 
be  now,  were  it  not  for  this  unforeseen  accident.  (Aside.)  Con- 
found that  jelly  !  (Aloud.)  Here,  take  a  bit  of  this  lamb.  It 
was  delicious  yesterday.  Wife  has  a  knack  of  giving  such  a 
relish.  (Aside.)  As  if  a  ton  of  that  sweet  stuff  could  pay  for 
this  ! 


232  PUBLIC   AND    PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Scott.    I  declare,  John,  you  wear  the  honors  of  a  host  well. 

John.    Never  happier  in  my  life.  —  Bi'ing  in  some  cider  ! 

LoTTY.    Yes  —  sir. 

John.  Wife's  uncle  sent  her  some  very  nice  cider,  —  pure 
article,  — just  from  the  press. 

Scott.  I  am  particularly  fond  of  cider.  None  of  your 
lager-beer,  when  I  can  get  good  cider ! 

LoTTY  returns  with  a  jug.     She  Jills  from  it  a  small  pitcher,  which  she  then 

places  on  the  table. 

John.    Now  some  goblets. 

LoTTY.    Yes  —  six*. 

John  (delightedly  filling  both  goblets  from  the  pitcher).  I  am  really 
glad  we  happened  to  have  this  nice  cider  in  the  house,  since 
you  are  so  fond  of  it. 

Scott.  Thank  you.  (Raising  the  glass,  and  looking  through  it.)  It 
is  wonderfully  clear. 

John  (clicking  his  goblet  against  Scott's).  Here 's  to  the  health 
of  the  future  Mrs.  Scott !  ( Thei/  both  drink,  but  commence  at  once  to 
strangle  and  cough.) 

LotTY  (throioing  up  her  hands  and  screaming  out).  0,  mercy  !  I  got 
the  wrong  jug  !     I  have  given  them  vinegar  ! 

Scene  IV.  —  Meg's  parlor,  containing  sofa,  chairs,  rocking-chair,  and  table. 
Meg,  prettily  dressed,  enters  with  her  work-basket,  which  she  places  on  the 
table. 

Meg  (looking  at  her  watch).  Almost  time  for  John  to  be  here. 
I  don't  care  !  I  'm  not  particularly  anxious  to  see  him  !  He 
had  no  business  to  serve  me  so ;  he  knew  I  was  going  to 
make  jelly.  A  queer  time  those  horrid  creatures  must  have 
had  !  Lotty  says,  John  pulled  out  all  the  odds  and  ends  he 
could  find  in  the  pantry,  —  even  to  those  bones  I  was  to  make 
a  soup  of  What  ivould  mother  say  ?  I  know,  I  suppose. 
She  would  say,  "Meg,  dear,  be  the  first  to  ask  pardon,  if 
you  err."  I  can't !  I  won't !  He  don't  deserve  it,  —  so  there  ! 
—  Hark  !  he  's  coming  !  (Takes  out  her  work,  rocks  to  and  fro,  and 
begins  to  hum  a  song.     Enter  John.) 

John  (aside).    I  was  over-anxious  about  her  making  herself 


A   FAMILY   JAR.  233 

sick  with  crying.  Dignified  as  you  please  !  (  Walks  leisurely  to 
the  sofa,  and  reclines  upon  it.)  We  are  goiug  to  have  a  new  moon, 
my  dear. 

Meg.    I  've  no  objection.    (A  pause.) 

John.  I  met  your  sister  Jo  down  the  street.  She  was  in 
a  gi'eat  hurry  about  something. 

Meg.    That 's  nothing  unusuah    {A  pause.) 

JoHX.  Do  you  know  what  day  of  the  week  Christmas  oc- 
cm's  on,  this  year  1 

Meg.    I  presume  the  almanac  will  tell  you. 

John  looks  about  abstractedly  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  apparent 
indifference  takes  out  his  newspapei-  and  reads  it.  Meg  turns  her  back,  and 
sews  for  dear  life, 

Meg  {aside).  0  dear !  married  life  is  very  trying,  and  does 
need  infinite  patience  as  well  as  love,  as  mother  says.  ( Glances 
at  John.)  He  looks  tired.  Poor  John  !  Shall  I  be  sorry  for 
this  1  It  was  too  bad  to  get  angry  with  him  this  noon. 
{Puts  down  her  work,  and  rises  to  her  feet.)  Mother  says,  hasty  words 
often  pave  the  way  for  bitter  sorrow  and  regret.  I  tvill  be 
the  first  to  say  "Forgive  me  !"  {Goes  slowly  across  the  room,  and 
stands  at  the  end  of  the  sofa,  near  John's  head.  He  takes  no  notice  of  her.) 
I  can't  give  in  !  —  This  is  our  first  misunderstanding  ;  I  '11 
do  ray  part,  and  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with.  {Stoops, 
and  kisses  his  forehead.     John  seats  her  by  his  side  in  a  moment.) 

John.  It  was  too  bad  to  laugh  at  the  poor  little  jelly  jars  ! 
Forgive  me,  dear ;  I  never  will  again. 

Meg.  Ha,  ha  !  Do  you  think  I  believe  you  1  By  the  way, 
John,  how  many  courses  did  you  have  for  dinner] 

John.  So  many  that  Scott  said  he  had  a  right  good  time, 
and  wants  to  come  again. 

Meg.  Good  !  He  must  come  !  and  I  shall  not  be  content 
till  I  write  a  note  and  invite  him.  ( Goes  to  the  table  and  writes,  then 
hands  the  note  to  John.)    There  ;   will  that  do  1 

John  {reads). 

"  Unfortunate  occurrences  haianc;  deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  to-day  my  husband's  old  friend,  will  Mr.  Scott  favor  us  with 
his  company  to  dine  next  Tuesday,  and  thus  give  happiness  to 

"Meg  Brooke." 


234  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

John.  That  is  like  you,  dear  !  And  I  shall  order  for  din- 
ner'? 

Meg.    Oysters,  — 

John.    Oysters,  — 

Meg.    Beef  to  roast,  — 

John.    Beef  to  roast,  — 

Meg.    Vegetables,  — 

John.   Ah,  yes  !     Vegetables,  — 

Meg.    But  not  jars  for  jelly,  John ! 

John    (apparently  surprised).     No  1 

Meg.    "  No  ] "      You  saucy  fellow  !     (Boxing  Ms  ears.) 

John.  I  tell  3'OU  what,  Meg  (throwing  his  arm  around  her  waist), 
I  should  not  object  to  having  some  —  more — jars  in  the 
house,  if  we  can  have  them  filled  with  such  sweets  as  these. 
(Kissing  her.) 

Meg.    Are  you  sure  they  will  Jceep  well  1 

John.  So  sure  that  I  sincerely  hope  (taking  Meg's  hand,  and 
looking  to  the  audience)  family  peace  may  be  preserved  in  every 
Family  Jar. 


CRAB  VILLAGE  LYCEUM. 

The  President  ;  Mr.  Hobbs  ;  Mr.  Stubbs  ;  Mr.  Snubbs  ;  Mr.  Tan- 
trum ;  Mr.  Slow  ;  Mr.  Sure  ;  Mr.  Tripp  ;  Mr.  Stump  ;  Mr. 
Parley  ;  Mr.  Flareup. 

MR.  HOBBS.  Mr.  President  :  The  subjec'  afore  the 
meetiu'  for  debate  this  evenin'  is  Newspapers ;  and  I 
rise  to  say  that  I  take  t'  other  side. 

Mr.  Stubbs  (springing  to  his  feet).  Mr.  President,  I  'd  like  to 
ask  what  the  speaker  means  by  <'  other  side. 

Mr.  Hobbs.  By  t'  other  side  I  mean  —  t'  other  side  ;  and 
that 's  the  side,  of  course,  that 's  opposed  to  t'  other  side. 

Mr.  Stubbs.  Mr.  President :  If  by  f  other  side  the  speaker 
intends  to  cast  any  insinuations  upon  the  side  that  I  am  on, 
allow  me,  Mr.  President,  to  say  that  his  remark  is  unparlia- 
mentary and  untrue. 


CRAB   ^^LLAGE   LYCEUM.  235 

Mr.  Snubbs.  Mr.  President :  If  the  gentlemen  who  have 
begun  the  debate  will  come  to  the  p'int,  —  that  is,  if  they 
have  any  p'int  to  come  to,  —  and  not  talk  round  the  p'int,  I  '11 
be  most  obleeged  ;  if  not,  1  shall  make  it  a  p'int  to  object:  and 
r  '11  say,  further,  that  if  they  hain't  got  any  p'int  to  come 
to,  they  'd  better  app'int  some  other  speakers,  and  not  disap- 
p'int  the  meeting. 

Mr.  Tantrum.  Mr.  President :  I  hope  speakers  will  not 
be  allowed  to  inteniipt  speakers  in  this  way.  For  if  speakers 
are  to  be  permitted  to  interrupt  speakers  in  this  manner, 
then  there  is  an  end  of  free  speech,  and  speakers  may  as 
■well  keep  their  seats.  No  gag-laws,  Mr.  President.  If  I  un- 
derstood Mr.  Snubbs  correctly,  Mr.  Snubbs  called  upon  Mr. 
Stubbs  and  Mr.  Hobbs  to  come  to  the  p'int ;  and  I  will  say 
that  when  Mr.  Snubbs  calls  upon  Mr.  Stubbs  or  Mr.  Hobbs 
to  come  to  the  p'int,  Mr.  Snubbs  requires  more  of  Mr.  Stubbs 
and  Mr.  Hobbs  than  Mr.  Snubbs  himself  can  do.  For  he 
never  can  come  to  the  p'int  as  long  as  he  remains  so  blunt. 

Mr.  Slow.  Mr.  President,  —  Mister  —  Pres-i-dent  :  The 
subject  before  this  meeting,  for  debate  this  evening,  as  one  of 
the  previous  speakers  has  so  well  observed,  is  the  subject  of 
Newspapers ;  be  they  a  cuss,  or  be  tliey  a  blessiii'  ?  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, I  agree  with  the  previous  speaker. 

Mr.  Snubbs,  Mr.  Stubbs,  Mr.  Hobbs,  and  Mr.  Sure  all  spring  to 
their  feet  at  once,  shouting,  "  Mr.  President  !  Mr.  President  ! " 

The  President  (rapping  on  his  desk).  Order!  order!  Mr.  Sure 
has  the  floor. 

Mr.  Sure.  Mr.  President :  When  I  started  to  come  to  the 
meetiu'  this  evenin',  my  marm  she  called  me  back,  and  says 
she,  "Amy,"  says  she, — for  she  mos'  gen'ly  alius  calls  mo 
Amy,  though  my  name 's  Amos,  named  arter  my  uncle 
Amos.  I  guess  most  of  the  memliers  present  knowed  my 
uncle  Amos ;  and,  though  I  do  say  it,  in  the  words  of  Milton,  — 

"  Take  him  altogether 
"We  never  shall  look  upon  his  likeness  agin." 

But  as  I  was  a-goin'  to  say,  she  called  me  back,  and  says  she, 


236  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DL\LOGUES. 

"Amy,"  says  she,  "what's  the  debate  on  to  this  evenin"?" 
says  she. 

And  when  I  said  Noospapers,  says  she,  "  Noospapers," 
says  she,  —  "  noospapers  ;  that 's  a  good  subjec'  for  debatin' 
on  to,"  says  she.  "  And  now,  Amy,"  says  she,  "  don't  forgit 
that  your  father  never  took  a  noospaper  in  his  hfe,  and  he 
alius  got  along  without  'em,  till  he  was  run  over  by  the  rail- 
road, and  both  legs  broke,  and  they  're  all  a  useless  expense," 
says  she  ;  "  and  if  anybody  claims  they  're  necessary,  you  jest 
up  and  as  'em.  What  did  Adam  and  Eve,  what  did  Noar,  what 
did  the  Patriarchs  do  without  noospapers  ] "  says  she.  And 
now  I  ax  that  question.  Mr.  President,  I  stand  here,  and 
ax.  What  's  the  good  o'  noospapers,  which  our  forefathers  got 
along  without  'em,  and  never  heard  of  sich  a  thing  ]  Mr. 
President ! 

Mr.  Tripp.  Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen  :  When  a  gen- 
tleman comes  into  this  lyceum,  and  carries  into  the  debate 
some  remark  which  his  marm  made  to  him  just  previously  to 
his  leaving  the  parental  domicile,  and  he  makes  that  remark 
his  argyment,  his  sole  argyment,  in  the  discussion,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, we  naturally  infer  that  he  has  no  ideas  of  his  own  on 
the  subject,  and  that  he  had  better  have  sent  his  marm  in  his 
place,  while  he  stayed  to  home  to  tend  the  baby.  For  my  part, 
I  stand  up  for  the  newspapers ;  and  beg  to  suggest,  that  if 
the  father  of  the  last  speaker  had  taken  a  paper,  and  if  the 
last  speaker  had  been  brought  up  to  read  that  paper,  we 
should  have  been  saved  the  humiliating  spectacle,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, of  a  yoimg  man  coming  here  without  a  notion  of  his 
own  in  his  addled  brains,  to  tell  us  what  his  marm  told  him 
to  say  ! 

Mr.  Stump.  Mr.  President :  Newspapers  is  a  cuss.  Takin' 
newspapers  is  money  throwed  away ;  and  readin'  newspapers 
is  time  throwed  away.  Better  be  doin'  suthin  useful,  —  chop- 
pin'  wood  or  darnin'  stockin's.  I  knowed  a  man  once  that  was 
alius  a  master-hand  to  be  alius  forever  a  readin'  a  newspaper ; 
and  that  man  was  took  up  for  sheep-stealiu'  ;  and  't  was 
proved  agin'  him,  —  proved  agin'  him,  jMi-.  President !  That 's 


CRAB   VILLAGE   LYCEUM.  237 

what  comes  from  readin'  newspapers.  Newspapers  is  a 
cuss. 

The  President.  If  ]\Ir.  Suipe  is  present,  we  should  be 
glad  to  hear  from  him  on  this  momenchewous  question. 

Mr.  Parley.  I  see  Neighbor  Snipe  this  moi-nin',  and  he 
told  me  to  tell  the  meetin'  that  his  hoss  wa'  n't  shod,  and  not 
bein'  able  to  git  his  hoss  shod,  or  to  git  a  hoss,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  'tend  the  meetin'.  He  wished  me  partic'lar  to 
mention  to  the  meetin'  that  the  man  that  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  shoein'  his  hoss  was  off  on  a  spree,  and  so  could  not 
shoe  his  hoss,  and,  his  hoss  not  bein'  shod,  he  could  not  'tend 
the  meetin'.  He  wished  me  partic'lar  to  state  to  the  meetin', 
that,  as  his  hoss  was  not  shod,  he  could  not  'tend  the  meetin'. 
His  hoss  not  bein'  shod,  he  could  not  'tend  the  meetin'. 

Mr.  Flareup.  Mr.  President  :  I  wish  friends  in  the  fore 
part  of  the  meeting  would  speak  up,  so  that  friends  in  the 
back  part  of  the  meeting  could  hear  what 's  going  on  in  the 
front  part  of  the  meeting.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  friends 
in  the  back  part  of  the  meeting  to  hear  what 's  going  on  in 
the  front  part  of  the  meeting.  Friends  in  the  back  part  of 
the  meeting  feel  as  much  interest  as  friends  in  the  front  part 
of  the  meeting ;  and  it  is  highly  necessary  that  friends  in  the 
fore  part  of  the  meeting  should  speak  up,  so  that  friends  in 
the  back  part  of  the  meeting  can  hear  what  friends  in  the 
fore  part  of  the  meeting  have  to  say.  And,  therefore,  I  say 
that  if  friends  in  the  fore  part  of  the  meeting  would  speak  up, 
80  that  we  setting  in  the  back  part'  of  the  meeting  could  hear 
what  's  going  on  in  the  front  part  of  the  meeting,  it 
would  be  very  satisfactory  to  friends  in  the  back  part  of  the 
meeting. 

Mr.  Hobbs.  As  it  's  gittin'  some  late,  and  as  Mr.  Snipe  is 
not  present,  and  as  a  question  of  this  natur'  had  n't  oughter 
be  decided  in  a  hurry,  I  move  that  this  meetin'  do  now  ad- 
journ over  to  the  next  meetin'  on  Tuesday  evcnin'  next. 

Mr.  Stubbs.    Second  the  motion. 

The  Prrsident.  All  tliem  that 's  in  favor  of  the  motion  to 
adjourn,  please  signify  it  by  saying  "  Aye." 


238  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

All  but  Mr.  Snubbs.    Aye  ! 
The  President.    Contrary-minded,  "No." 
Mr.  Snubbs.    No  ! 

The  President.    It 's  a  vote.      This  meeting  is  now  ad- 
journed. 


AFTER  SCHOOL,   WHAT? 

Louise  Earnest  ;  Kate  Spangle  ;  Madge  Flyaway  ;  Lizzie  Help- 
ful;  Susan  Easy  ;   Miss  Leslie,  a  teacher;  Little  Giel. 

Scene,  a  schoolroom.    Present,  Louise  and  Kate. 

LOUISE.  I  say,  Kate  !  what  are  you  going  to  do  when 
you  leave  school  ] 

Kate.  What  am  I  going  to  do  1  Why,  what 's  put  that 
into  your  head  1 

Louise.  It  seems  to  me  the  most  natural  question  in  the 
world.  Here  we  are  in  the  last  half-quarter  of  a  four  years' 
com-se.  A  few  more  weeks,  and  we  shall  be  scattered,  —  I 
was  going  to  add,  as  my  grandmother  would  have  done,  "  one 
to  his  farm,  and  another  to  his  merchandise."  I  wish  I  could 
say  it ! 

Kate.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  That  sounds  well !  You  wish  we 
were  going  to  be  farmers  and  merchants'? 

Louise.  No,  I  don't  mean  that,  literally ;  but  I  wish  the 
spirit  of  it  were  true. 

Madge   (entering).    What 's  that  you  wish  were  truel 

Kate.  Good,  Madge  !  I  'm  glad  you  're  here.  Come  and 
sit  down,  and  hear  what  our  future  class-poet  is  singing 
about. 

Louise.  None  of  your  nonsense,  Kate !  I  'm  in  dead 
earnest ;  I  mean  every  word  I  say ;  I  can't  say  half  I  feel 
on  the  subject ! 

Madge.  What 's  up  now  1  More  fun  1  I  am  in  for  that ! 
Was  just  wishing  I  could  hear  of  some  good  news  to  drive 
dull  care  away. 


AFTER   SCHOOL,   WHAT  ?  239 

Kate.  Anything  but  fun.  We  are  going  to  have  a  sermon. 
We  have  ah-eadj  had  the  text, 

Louise.  I  '11  tell  you,  Madge  :  I  have  been  turning  it 
over  in  my  mind  lately,  how  we  girls  are  going  to  employ  our 
time  when  we  get  through  school.  You  know  I  have  four 
brothers  — 

Madge.    Yes,  I  know  that. 

Kate.  Of  course  !  Madge  always  finds  out,  somehow  or 
other,  how  many  brothers  any  of  us  girls  have.  But  go  on 
with  your  story,  Louise.  I  '11  try  to  hold  my  tongue  for  five 
Beconds. 

Louise.    How  many  seconds  ? 

Kate  puts  her  finger  on  her  lips,  and  holds  up  five  fingers,  trying  to  look 

prim  and  sober. 

Louise.  As  I  was  saying,  I  have  four  brothers,  who  are  all 
studying ;  and  when  we  are  at  home  together  at  vacation,  I 
hear  them  discussing  with  the  utmost  eagerness  what  each 
shall  do  in  life.  Now",  I  have  been  with  my  brothers  so  much 
all  my  life,  sharing  their  spoils,  in-doors  and  out,  that  I  feel 
quite  out  in  the  cold  when  they  get  to  talking  about  their 
future.  I  must  say  I  was  n't  much  flattered  the  other  day 
when  I  heard  Will  say,  "  What  a  bother  it  is,  trying  to  find 
the  right  thing  to  do !  Now,  gii'ls  don't  have  such  a  time. 
All  they  have  to  think  of  when  they  leave  school  is,  what 
shall  be  the  color  of  their  next  dress." 

ELate.   I  hope  you  don't  object  to  a  girl's  giving  attention 

to  her  dress.     (Looking  over  her  shoulder  with  satisfaction  at  her  own 
showy,  well  fitting  basque.) 

Louise.    0  no  !  of  course  not.     But  dress  is  not  everything. 

Kate.  Dress  is  a  good  deal,  let  me  tell  you  that !  I  '11 
wager  I  could  make  a  better  impression  on  your  brothers,  or 
any  other  young  gentlemen,  if  I  had  on  a  stylish  dress. 

Madge.    That 's  so. 

Louise.  I  would  n't  give  a  fig  for  any  man  who  judged  a 
girl  l)y  her  dress  alone  ! 

Madge.  Nor  L  One  of  the  jolliest  times  I  ever  had  in 
my  life  —  when  we  wore  at  the  beach,  you  know  —  was  one 


240  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES, 

day  when  I  had  gone  with  Hal  and  Herbert  on  a  fishing- 
scrape  ;  had  on  a  short  dress,  jacket  to  match,  big  rubber 
boots,  and  a  great  sun-hat  that  looked  like  a  Chinese  um- 
brella.     You,  Kate,  would  n't  dare  to  go  in  such  a  rig. 

Louise.  '  I  don't  see  anything  particularly  jolly  in  that. 

Kate.  Ah  !  she  don't  tell  the  whole  story.  Some  of  Hal's 
college  friends  came  along,  —  where  's  my  fan  1  —  only  half 
a  dozen,  I  believe ;  three  out  of  the  six  were  —  where  's  my 
smelling-bottle'? — mortally  wounded  by  Cupid's  darts. 

Madge.    How  absurd  you  are,  Kate  ! 

Kate.  It  is  the  solemn  truth  !  (Looking  very  wise.)  One  will 
never  be  seen  on  this  mundane  sphere  again.  The  other  two 
are  still  lingering  along,  but  these  (RLvdge  gets  up  and  tries  to  stuff" 
her  handkerchief  in  Kate's  mouth)  will  soon  be  (struggling  with 
Madge)  no  more.  Their  epitaph  will  be,  —  "  Died  of —  a  big 
pair  of  rubber  boots  !  "     (The  girls  all  laugh.) 

Louise.  0  Kate,  you  always  remind  me  of  a  champagne 
bottle,  —  full  of  sparkle  and  effervescence.  But,  seriously, 
there  is  something  quite  captivating  in  seeing  a  girl  brave  the 
elements  in  pursuit  of  health  and  fun.  Suppose  Madge  had 
worn  a  long  trail  down  over  the  rocks  and  into  the  fishing- 
wherry  ;  don't  you  believe  those  same  fellows  would  have 
laughed  at  her  1     My  brothers  would. 

Madge.  I  don't  care  that  (snapping  her  fingers)  whether  a 
man  laughs  at  me  or  not !  When  I  'm  in  for  a  good  time,  don't 
bring  me  any  of  your  trails  and  flounces  !  I  hate  long  dresses, 
unless  I  am  off  for  a  horseback  ride ;  and  even  then  I  wish  I 
could  cut  off  about  so  much  (measuring  half  a  yard  with  her  hands). 

Susan  enters. 

Louise.  We  are  wandering  from  our  subject  somewhat. 
Here  comes  Susan  Easy ;  let 's  ask  her  opinion.  Susan,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  when  you  leave  school  ? 

Susan.  Do  ]  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  —  never  asked  myself. 
I  suppose  I  shall  do  as  other  girls  do  :  stay  at  home,  when 
I  am  not  away  visiting ;  read,  and  write  to  my  friends ;  prac- 
tise a  little ;  go  to  the  opera.  Won't  it  be  jolly  to  have  no 
more  compositions  to  write  1 


AFTER   SCHOOL,   WHAT  ?  241 

Kate.    I  don't  di-ead  compositions  very  much. 
Susan.    You  don't  1     They  are  the  bugbear  of  my  life. 
Madge.    Louise,  you  have   made   me  a  little  curious.      I 
want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do. 

Louise.  That  is  just  what  I  don't  know.  Wish  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  I  did. 

Kate.  How  absurd  you  are,  Louise  !  You  know  I  am 
crazy  to  have  you  go  to  Washington  with  me  and  spend  the 
winter. 

Louise.  Yes,  you  would  be  very  proud  of  me  and  my  gay 
outfit  of  three  or  four  dresses,  would  n't  you,  Kate  ?  —  you, 
with  your  splendid  wardrobe,  fresh  from  Paris.  Say,  Kate, 
be  honest,  and  tell  me  if  you  should  look  forward  now  with 
quite  so  much  zest  to  a  winter  in  Washington,  if  you  were  to 
have  no  elegant  di-esses  to  display  ?  Let  me  see ;  how  many 
dozen  have  you  ordered  from  Paris  ? 

Kate  (o  little  touched).  I  won't  tell  you,  because  you  have 
hurt  me.  Just  as  if  I  should  stop  to  ask  how  many  yards  of 
silk  or  cashmere  you  had  in  your  ti'unk,  if  I  could  only  have 
your  own  dear  self ! 

Louise.  Good  !  good  !  I  am  glad  I  have  brought  you  to  the 
point  at  last.  You  have  acknowledged  now  that  di-ess  is  not 
everything. 

Madge.    Yes,  she  has  owned  up  handsomely. 
Susan  {to  Louise).    You  are  one  of  the  queerest  girls  I  ever 
knew.     Guess  /  should  n't  have  to  be  asked  twice  to  spend 
the  winter  in  Washington  ! 

Louise.  I  should  enjoy  going  there, — hope  I  shall  some- 
time 5  but  I  have  a  question  or  two  to  settle  first.  I  can't 
enjoy  myself  anywhere  till  I  know  what  I  ought  to  do,  when 
we  leave  these  dear  rooms.  Kate,  you  don't  suspect  it,  but 
I  am  quite  as  much  exercised  about  you  as  about  myself 
Now,  you  have  splendid  talents.  (Kate  bows  mockingly.)  Your 
father  has  spent  a  small  fortune  on  j^our  education.  It  is  a 
wicked  shame  for  you  to  be  so  indiff'erent  as  to  what  you 
ought  to  do  with  your  acquirements.  You  '11  never  rest  con- 
tent to  simply  dress  and  flirt ;  you  know  you  won't. 


242  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Susan.    Perhaps  she  '11  get  married. 

Louise.  That 's  all  true.  I  hope  she  will  some  time.  But 
in  the  mean  while  what  is  she  to  do,  to  think  of]  I  don't 
know  why  girls  should  sit  down  and  wait  for  marriage  any- 
more than  their  brothers.  Any  sensible  man  would  think 
better  of  a  girl  if  she  exercised  her  faculties  in  some  way  help- 
ful to  society,  than  if  she  let  them  die  out  for  want  of  use. 

Madge.  So  I  say.  Here  comes  Lizzie  Helpful.  She  never 
talks  much  with  us  girls.    I  don't  like  to  ask  her  about  herself. 

Lizzie  enters. 

Louise.  I  had  just  as  lief.  I  will  be  thankful  to  any  one 
to  show  me  the  truth.  Lizzie,  we  are  talking  about  what  we 
shall  do  when  we  leave  school.  What  are  you  going  to  do  1 
Are  you  anxious  to  have  school  close  1 

Lizzie.  Were  I  to  consult  my  inclinations,  I  might  stay 
here  and  study  always ;  but  I  have  others  besides  myself  to 
think  of.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  I  have  lost  my 
father.  My  mother's  income  is  small.  I  have  several  broth- 
ers and  sisters  younger  than  myself.  Of  course  I  must  sup- 
port myself  and  help  support  them.  I  am  in  hopes  to  help 
one  of  my  brothers  through  college. 

Susan.  0  dear  !  what  a  life  of  drudgery  !  Don't  you  hate 
to  teach  1 

Lizzie.  Not  at  all.  At  least,  I  do  not  since  I  hope  to  ac- 
complish so  much  by  it.  I  should  be  very  glad  if  I  could  be 
sure  of  a  paying  school  as  soon  as  I  leave  here.  My  little  sis- 
ters might  come  to  me  to  be  taught,  and  this  would  relieve 
mother  of  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  on  their  account.  They  are 
bright,  wide-awake  girls,  and  mother  could  never  afford  to 
spend  as  much  for  their  education  as  she  has  for  mine. 

Louise  (extending  her  hand  to  Lizzie).  You  are  a  h;cky  girl. 
I  envy  you.  I  wish  every  one  of  us  could  be  as  worthy  of  a 
diploma  as  you  are. 

Miss  Leslie  [enters,  smiling).  Girls,  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
me  ;  but  being  in  the  next  room,  and  the  door  being  open,  I 
could  not  avoid  hearing  your  conversation ;  and  I  assure  you 
the  most  of  it  has  given  me  pleasure.     You  were  speaking  of 


AFTER    SCHOOL,    WHAT  ?  243 

Lizzie  Helpful  just  now,  and  I  wanted  to  call  your  atten- 
tion to  one  fact  that  you  may  not  have  noticed.  As  Lizzie 
has  had  an  object  in  studying,  an  aim  in  life,  she  has 
never  been  so  perplexed  by  the  difficulties  in  her  four  years' 
course  as  some  of  you  have.  Compositions,  for  instance,  were 
at  first  quite  distasteful  to  her,  as  was  algebra ;  but  she  said 
to  herself,  I  must  become  acquainted  with  these  studies,  or  I 
cannot  teach  them  to  others.  Hence  she  readily  overcame 
her  dislike  to  them. 

I  hope  you  will  never  forget  your  talk  of  to-day,  girls. 
Think  it  over,  and  get  some  good  out  of  it.  I  could  have  no 
greater  happiness  than  to  be  sure  my  pupils  will  all  make  the 
highest  use  of  what  they  have  learned  here.  I  hope  to  hear 
some  day  that  Kate  is  an  authoress,  —  writing  books  that  will 
do  good  in  the  world. 

Kate  (eagerly).    Do  you  think  I  ever  could  ] 

Miss  L.  Madge  will,  I  trust,  teach  gymnastics,  and  give  les- 
sons in  hygiene.  Susan  will,  I  am  sure,  be  a  good  little  house- 
keeper for  her  mother,  and  keep  her  father's  accounts.  You 
are  very  quick  at  figures  [to  Susan). 

Louise  (rising).    And  1 1 

Miss  L.  (putting  her  hand  on  Louise's  head  and  thinhing  a  moment). 
For  you,  dear  child,  I  cannot  seem  to  mark  out  a  course. 
But  you  are  thoroughly  in  earnest  as  to  what  is  your  duty. 
Heaven  gives  to  those  who  seek.  There  will  be  a  way  of  use- 
fulness opened  to  you,  I  have  no  doubt. 

A  little  girl  enters,  bringing  a  note  to  Miss  L.,  who  takes  it  and  reads  it  to 

herself. 

Miss  L.  (smiling).  This  is  a  note  that  will  interest  you,  girls. 
(Reads.) 

"  Dear  Miss  Leslie,  —  We  are  making  preparations  to  leave  for 
Europe,  with  our  little  daughters.  I  am  exceedingly  anxious  to  find 
a  young  lady  to  accompany  us  who  shall  be  at  once  companionable 
to  my  wife,  and  competent  to  educate  my  little  girls.  Slie  must  be 
earnest  and  practical,  desirous  not  only  to  he  good,  but  to  do  good. 
If  you  know  of  any  such  young  lady  among  ycair  jjupils  who  would 
like  the  situation,  please  answer  by  return  mail,  and  oblige, 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Henry  B.  Claflin." 


244  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Kate.  Mr.  Claflin  !  I  know  him  well.  He  has  one  of  the 
most  delightful  families  I  ever  met.  I  should  n't  object  to 
travelling  to  Europe  with  them  myself. 

Madge.    I  don't  know  who  would. 

Susan.    I  am  dying  to  go  to  Europe. 

Miss  L.  Louise,  you  have  not  had  to  wait  very  long  for  a 
chance  to  make  yourself  useful.  I  feel  that  this  opportunity 
belongs  to  you,  if  you  will  take  it. 

Louise.  0,  I  should  like  to  go,  above  all  things.  I  will 
write  to  my  parents  at  once.    ( Bell  rings. ) 

Kate.    There  is  the  bell  for  recitation. 

Madge.   Yes,  we  must  hurry,  or  we  shall  all  be  late. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  PICKWICK  TRIAL. 

Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh.  Mr.  T.  Groffin,  Juryman. 

Mr.  Serjeant  Buzfuz.  Mr.  Weller,  senior. 

Mr.  Serjeant  Snubbin.  Mr.  Weller,  junior. 

S.  Pickwick,  Esq.  Clerk  of  the  Court. 

N.  Winkle,  Esq.  Crier  of  the  Court. 

Mr.  Peeker,  Attorney -at-law.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Cluppins. 
Jurymen  and  Spectators. 

Mr.  Pickwick,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Perker  discovered  sitting 
close  to  each  other  on  one  side,  with  Sam  standing  behind  his  master's  chair. 
Gerk  of  the  Court  sitting  in  front  of  the  Judge's  bench.  '  Mr.  Groffin  and 
other  jurymen  on  front  bench  with  audience. 

WINKLE.  I  wonder  what  the  foreman  of  the  jury  has 
had  for  breakfast. 

Perker.    Ah  !    I  hope  he  has  had  a  good  one. 

Pickwick.    Why  so  1 

Perker.  Highly  important,  very  important,  my  dear  sir. 
A  good,  contented,  well-breakfasted  juryman  is  a  capital  thing 
to  get  hold  of  Discontented  or  hungry  jurymen,  my  dear 
sir,  always  find  for  the  plaintiff. 

Pick.    Bless  my  heart  !  what  do  they  do  that  fori 

Perk.   Why,  I  don't  know ;  saves  time,  I  suppose.     If  it 's 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  245 

near  dinner-time,  the  foreman  takes  out  his  watch  when  the 
jury  have  retired,  and  says,  "  Dear  me,  gentlemen  !  Ten  min- 
utes to  five,  I  declare.  I  dine  at  five,  gentlemen."  "  So  do  I," 
says  everybody  else,  except  two  men  who  ought  to  have  dined 
at  three,  and  seem  more  than  half  disposed  to  stand  out  in 
consequence.  The  foreman  smiles,  and  puts  up  his  watch  : 
"  Well,  gentlemen,  what  do  we  say  ]  —  plaintiff  or  defendant, 
gentlemen  ]  I  rather  think,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  gentle- 
men, —  I  say  I  rather  think,  —  but  don't  let  that  influence 
you,  —  I  rather  think  the  plaintift^'s  the  man."  Upon  this 
two  or  three  other  men  are  sure  to  say  that  they  think  so  too ; 
of  course  they  do ;  and  then  they  get  on  very  unanimously 
and  comfortably. 

Ten  minutes  past  ni-ne  !  (Loohngathis  watch.)  Time  the  judge 
had  come,  my  dear  sir.  Breach  of  promise  trial,  —  court  is 
generally  full  in  such  cases.  You  had  better  make  yourself 
comfortable,  my  dear  sir,  before  the  crowd  comes  in. 

Pick.    That 's  the  witness-box,  I  suppose  ? 

Perk.    That  's  the  witness-box,  my  dear  sir. 

Pick.    And  that,  there  's  where  the  jurymen  sit,  is  it  not? 

Perk.    The  identical  place,  my  dear  sir. 

Enter  Serjeant  Snubbin.    He  sits  down,  and  arranges  his  papers. 
Enter  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

BuzFUZ  {to  Snubbin).    It  's  a  fine  morning. 

Pick.  (^oPerker).  Who's  that  red-faced  man  who  said  it 
was  a  fine  morning  and  nodded  to  our  counsel  % 

Perk.  Mr.  Serjeant  Buzfuz.  He  's  opposed  to  us,  and 
leads  on  the  other  side. 

Pick.  Opposed  to  us  1  Then  how  dare  he  presume  to  tell 
my  coimsel  "  it  's  a  fine  morning"? 

Enter  Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh,  attended  by  crier,  etc.,  and  takes  his  seat 

on  the  bench. 

Crier.    Silence  !  silence  !  silence  in  the  court ! 

Clerk.  Answer  to  your  names,  gentlemen,  that  you  may 
he  swoni.  (Reads  names  of  eleven  gentlemen  among  the  audience,  and  ends 
unth)  Thomas  Groffin ! 


246  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Grofpin,    Here. 

Clerk.    Take  the  book.     You  shall  well  and  truly  try  — 

Groffin.  I  beg  this  court's  pardon,  but  I  hope  the  court 
will  excuse  my  attendance. 

Judge.    On  what  grounds,  sir  1 

Groffin.    I  have  no  assistant,  my  lord. 

Judge.    I  can't  help  that,  sir ;  you  should  hire  one. 

Groffin.    I  can't  afford  it,  my  lord. 

Judge.    Then  you  ought  to  be  able  to  affoi-d  it,  sir  ! 

Groffin.  Very  well,  my  lord.  Then  there  '11  be  murder 
before  the  trial 's  over,  that 's  all.  Swear  me,  if  you  please, 
sir. 

Clerk.  You  shall  well  and  truly  try  —  (gabble,  gabble,  gab- 
ble) —  kiss  the  book. 

Groffin  (ajler  kisswg  the  booh).  I  merely  wanted  to  observe, 
my  lord,  that  I  've  left  nobody  but  an  errand-boy  in  my  shop. 
He  is  a  very  nice  boy,  my  lord,  but  he  's  not  much  acquainted 
with  drugs,  and  I  know  the  prevailing  impression  on  his  mind 
is,  that  Epsom  salts  means  oxalic  acid,  and  syrup  of  senna 
laudanum.     That 's  all,  my  lord. 

Enter  Mrs.  Cluppins  and  friends,  who  take  seats  opposite  Pickwick,  etc. 

Judge.    What 's  the  first  case  on  the  file  ? 

Clerk.    Bardell  versus  Pickwick,  my  lord. 

Buz.    I  am  for  the  plaintiff,  my  lud. 

Snub.    I  am  for  the  defendant,  my  lud. 

Judge.    Go  on. 

Crier.    Silence  !  silence  !  silence  ! 

Buz.  My  lud  !  may  it  please  your  ludship,  and  the  gentle- 
men of  the  jury  !  Never,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  profes- 
sional experience,  —  never,  from  the  very  first  moment  of  my 
applying  myself  to  the  study  and  practice  of  the  law,  — 
have  I  approached  a  case  with  such  feelings  of  deep  emotion, 
or  with  such  a  heavy  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
me,  —  a  responsibility,  I  would  say,  which  I  could  never  have 
supported,  were  I  not  buoj^ed  up  and  sustained  by  a  convic- 
tion so  strong  that  it  amounted  to  positive  certainty,  that  the 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  ~"  247 

cause  of  truth  and  justice,  or,  in  other  woi'ds,  the  cause  of  my 
much-injured  and  most  oppressed  chent,  must  prevail  with 
the  high-minded  and  intelUgent  dozen  of  men  whom  I  see 
now  in  that  box  befoi-e  me.  You  are  aware  that  this  is  an 
action  for  a  bi-each  of  promise  of  marriage,  in  which  the  dam- 
ages are  hiid  at  £  1500.  But  you  are  not  aware  what  are  the 
facts  and  circumstances  of  the  case.  Those  facts  and  cir- 
cumstances, gentlemen,  you  shall  hear  detailed  by  me,  and 
proved  by  the  unimpeachable  female  whom  I  will  place  in 
that  box  before  you. 

The  plaintiff,  gentlemen,  —  the  plaintiflP  is  a  widow.  Yes, 
gentlemen,  a  widow.  The  late  Mr.  Bardell,  after  enjoying 
for  many  years  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  his  sovereign,  as 
one  of  the  guardians  of  its  royal  revenues,  glided  almost 
imperceptibly  from  the  world,  to  seek  elsewhere  for  that  re- 
pose and  peace  which  a  custom-house  can  never  aftbrd. 

Sometime  before. his  death  he  had  stamped  his  likeness 
upon  a  little  boy.  With  this  little  boy,  — the  only  pledge  of 
her  departed  exciseman,  —  Mrs.  Bardell  shrunk  from  the 
world,  and  courted  the  retirement  and  tranquillity  of  Goswell 
Street ;  and  here  she  placed  in  her  front-parlor  window  a 
written  placard,  bearing  the  inscription,  "  Apartments  fur- 
nished, for  a  single  gentleman.     Inquire  withih." 

I  entreat  the  attention  of  the  jury  to  the  wording  of  this 
document  :  "  Apartments  furnished,  for  a  single  gentleman." 
Mrs.  Bardell's  opinions  of  the  opposite  sex,  gentlemen,  Avere 
derived  from  a  long  contemplation  of  the  inestimable  qualities 
of  her  lost  husband.  She  had  no  fear,  she  had  no  distrust, 
she  had  no  suspicion  :  all  was  confidence  and  reliance.  "  Mr. 
Bardell,"  said  tlie  widow,  —  "  Mr.  Bardell  was  !i  man  of  lionor, 
Mr.  Bardell  was  a  man  of  his  word,  Mr.  Bardell  was  no 
deceiver,  Mr.  Bardell  was  once  a  single  gentleman  himself; 
to  single  gentlemen  I  look  for  protection,  for  assistance,  for 
comfort,  and  for  consolation  ;  in  single  gentlemen  I  shall  per- 
petually see  something  to  remind  me  of  what  Mr.  Bardell  was 
wlien  he  first  won  my  young  and  untried  aft'ections  ;  to  a  sin- 
gle gentleman,  then,  shall  my  lodgings  be  let."     Actuated  by 


248  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

this  beautiful  and  touching  impulse  (among  the  best  im- 
pulses of  our  imperfect  nature,  gentlemen),  the  lonely  and 
desolate  widow  dried  her  tears,  furnished  her  first  floor,  caught 
her  innocent  boy  to  her  maternal  bosom,  and  put  the  bill  up 
in  her  parlor  window.  Did  it  remain  there  long  1  No.  The 
serpent  was  on  the  watch.  The  train  was  laid.  The  mine 
was  preparing.  The  sapper  and  miner  were  at  work.  Before 
the  bill  had  been  in  the  parlor  window  three  days,  —  three 
days,  gentlemen,  —  a  being,  erect  upon  two  legs,  and  bearing 
all  the  outward  semblance  of  a  man,  and  not  of  a  monster, 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Bardell's  house.  He  inquired 
within.  He  took  the  lodgings  ;  and  on  the  very  next  day  he 
entered  into  possession  of  them.  The  man  was  Pickwick,  — 
Pickwick,  the  defendant. 

Of  this  man  Pickwick  I  will  say  little.  The  subject  pre- 
sents few  attractions  ;  and  I,  gentlemen,  am  not  the  man,  nor 
are  you,  gentlemen,  the  men,  to  delight  in  the  contemplation 
of  revolting  heartlessness  and  of  systematic  villauy. 

Pick,  {jumps  up).    How  dare  you,  sir  ! 

Perk.    Hush,  my  dear  sir  ;  pray  sit  down. 

Crier.    Silence  !  silence  in  the  court ! 

Buz.  I  say  systematic  villany,  gentlemen.  And  when  1 
say  systematic  villany,  let  me  tell  the  defendant  Pickwick, 
if  he  be  in  court,  as  I  am  informed  he  is,  that  it  would  have 
been  more  decent  in  him,  more  becoming,  in  better  judgment 
and  in  better  taste,  if  he  had  stopped  away.  ,  Let  me  tell 
him,  gentlemen,  that  any  gestures  of  dissent  or  disapproba- 
tion in  which  he  may  indulge  in  this  court  will  not  go  down 
with  you  ;  that  you  will  know  how  to  value  and  how  to  appre- 
ciate them.  And  let  me  tell  him  further,  as  my  lord  will  tell 
you,  gentlemen,  that  a  counsel,  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty 
to  his  client,  is  neither  to  be  intimidated,  nor  bullied,  nor  put 
down ;  and  that  any  attempt  to  do  either  the  one  or  the 
other,  or  the  first  or  the  last,  will  recoil  on  the  head  of  the 
attempter,  be  he  plaintiff  or  be  he  defendant,  be  his  name 
Pickwick,  or  Noakes,  or  Stoakes,  or  Styles,  or  Brown,  or 
Thomson. 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  249 

I  shall  show  you,  gentlemen,  that  for  two  years  Pickwick 
continued  to  reside  constantly,  and  without  interruption  or 
intermission,  at  Mrs.  Bardell's  house.  I  shall  show  you  that 
Mrs.  Bardell,  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  waited  on  him,  at- 
tended to  his  comforts,  cooked  his  meals,  looked  out  his  linen 
for  the  washerwoman  when  it  went  abroad,  darned,  aired, 
and  prepared  it  for  wear  when  it  came  home,  and,  in  short, 
enjoyed  his  fullest  trust  and  confidence.  I  shall  show  you 
that  on  many  occasions  he  gave  half-pence,  and  on  some 
occasions  even  sixpences,  to  her  little  boy  ;  and  I  shall  prove 
to  you,  by  a  witness  whose  testimony  it  will  be  impossible  for 
my  learned  friend  to  weaken  or  controvert,  that  on  one  occa- 
sion he  patted  the  boy  on  the  head,  and,  after  inquiring 
whether  he  had  won  any  "  alley  tors  "  or  "  commoneys  "  lately 
(both  of  which  I  undei'stand  to  be  a  particular  species  of  mar- 
bles, much  prized  by  the  youth  of  this  city),  made  use  of  this  re- 
markable expression:  "  How  should  you  like  to  have  another 
fixther  ] "  I  shall  prove  to  you  further,  gentlemen,  that,  about  a 
year  ago,  Pickwick  began  suddenly  to  absent  himself  from  home 
during  long  intervals,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  gradually 
breaking  off  from  my  client ;  but  I  shall  show  you  also  that  his 
resolution  was  not  at  the  time  sufBciently  strong,  or  that  his 
better  feelings  conquei'ed,  —  if  better  feelings  he  has,  —  or 
that  the  charms  and  accomplishments  of  my  client  prevailed 
over  his  unmanly  intentions,  by  proving  to  you  that  on  one 
occasion,  when  he  returned  from  the  country,  he  distinctly, 
and  in  terms,  offered  her  marriage,  —  pi-eviously,  however, 
taking  special  care  that  there  should  be  no  witnesses  to  their 
solemn  contract.  And  I  am  in  a  situation  to  prove  to  you,  on 
the  testimony  of  three  of  his  own  friends,  —  most  unwilling 
witnesses,  gentlemen,  most  unwilling  witnesses,  —  that  on 
that  morning  he  was  discovered  by  them  holding  the  plaintiff 
in  his  arms,  and  soothing  her  agitation  by  his  caresses  and 
endearments. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  but  one  word  more.  Two  letters 
have  passed  between  these  parties,  — letters  which  are  admit- 
ted to  be  in  the  handwriting  of  the  defendant,  and  which 
11* 


250  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

speak  volumes  indeed.  These  letters,  too,  bespeak  the  char- 
acter of  the  man.  They  are  not  open,  fervent,  eloquent  epis- 
tles, breathing  nothing  but  the  language  of  affectionate 
attachment.  They  are  covert,  sly,  underhanded  communica- 
tions, but,  fortunately,  far  more  conclusive  than  if  couched  in 
the  most  glowing  language  and  the  most  poetic  imagery,  — 
letters  that  must  be  viewed  with  a  cautious  and  suspicious 
eye  ;  letters  that  were  evidently  intended  at  the  time  by 
Pickwick  to  mislead  and  delude  any  thii'd  parties  into  whose 
hands  they  might  fall.  Let  us  read  the  first :  "  Garraway's, 
twelve  o'clock.  Dear  Mrs.  B.,  —  Chops  and  tomato  sauce. 
Yours,  Pickwick." 

Gentlemen,  what  does  this  mean  1  "  Chops  and  tomato 
sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick  "  !  Chops  !  gracious  heaven  !  and 
tomato  sauce  !  Gentlemen,  is  the  happiness  of  a  sensitive 
and  confiding  female  to  be  trifled  away  by  such  shallow  arti- 
fices as  these  1 

The  next  has  no  date  whatever,  which  is  in  itself  sus- 
picious :  "  Dear  Mrs.  B.,  I  shall  not  be  at  home  till  to-morrow. 
Slow  coach."  And  then  follows  this  remarkable  expression  : 
"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  warming-pan." 

The  warming-pan  !  Why,  gentlemen,  who  does  trouble 
himself  about  a  warming-pan  1  When  was  the  peace  of  mind 
of  man  or  woman  broken  or  disturbed  by  a  warming-pan, 
■which  is  in  itself  a  harmless,  a  useful,  and  I  will  add,  gentle- 
men, a  comforting  article  of  domestic  furniture]  Why  is 
Mrs.  Bardell  so  earnestly  entreated  not  to  agitate  herself 
about  this  warming-pan,  unless  (as  is  no  doubt  the  case)  it  is 
a  mere  cover  for  hidden  fire,  a  mere  substitute  for  some  en- 
dearing word  or  promise,  agreeably  to  a  preconcerted  system 
of  correspondence,  artfully  contrived  by  Pickwick  with  a  view 
to  his  contemplated  desertion,  and  w^hich  I  am  not  in  a  con- 
dition to  explain  1  And  what  does  this  allusion  to  the  "  slow 
coach  "  mean  1  For  aught  I  know,  it  may  be  a  reference  to 
Pickwick  himself,  who  has  most  unquestionably  been  a  crimi- 
nally slow  coach  during  the  whole  of  this  transaction,  but 
whose  speed  will  now  be  very  unexpectedly  accelerated,  and 


THE  PICKWICK  TRIAL.  251 

whose  wheels,  gentlemen,  as  he  will  find  to  his  cost,  will  very 
soon  be  greased  by  you  ! 

But  enough  of  this,  gentlemen.  It  is  difficult  to  smile  with 
an  aching  heai-t.  It  is  ill  jesting  when  our  deepest  sympathies 
are  awakened.  My  client's  hopes  and  prospects  are  ruined, 
and  it  is  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  her  occupation  is 
gone  indeed.  The  bill  is  down,  but  there  is  no  tenant. 
Eligible  single  gentlemen  pass  and  repass,  but  there  is  no  in- 
vitation for  them  to  inquire  within  or  without.  All  is  gloom 
and  silence  in  the  house.  Even  the  voice  of  the  child  is 
hushed.  His  infant  sports  are  disregarded  when  his  mother 
weeps.  His  "  alley  tors  "  and  his  "  commoneys  "  are  alike 
neglected  !  He  forgets  the  long  familiar  cry  of  "  Knuckle 
down  "  ;  and  at  tip-cheese,  or  odd  and  even,  his  hand  is  out. 
But  Pickwick,  gentlemen,  —  Pickwick,  the  ruthless  destroyer 
of  this  domestic  oasis  in  the  desert  of  Goswell  Street,  —  Pick- 
wick, who  has  choked  up  the  well,  and  thrown  ashes  on  the 
sward,  — -  Pickwick,  who  comes  before  you  to-day  with  his  heart- 
less tomato  sauce  and  warming-pans,  —  Pickwick  still  rears 
his  head  with  unblushing  effrontery,  to  gaze  without  a  sigh 
on  the  ruin  he  has  made.  Damages,  gentlemen,  heavy 
damages  is  the  only  punishment  with  which  you  can  visit 
him,  the  only  recompense  you  can  award  to  my  client.  And 
for  those  damages  she  now  appeals  to  an  enlightened,  a  high- 
minded,  a  right-feeling,  a  conscientious,  a  dispassionate,  a 
sympathizing,  a  contemplative  jury  of  her  civilized  country- 
men. 

Buz.    Call  Elizabeth  Cluppins. 

Clerk.    Elizabeth  Puppius ! 

Crier.    Elizabeth  Muffins ! 

Mrs.  Cluppins  enters  witness-box. 
Buz.   Pray  compose  yourself,  Mrs.  Cluppins. 
Mbs.  Cluppins  sobs  convulsively. 

Buz,  Do  you  recollect,  Mrs.  Cluppins,  being  in  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell's  back  one  pair  of  stairs,  on  one  particular  morning  in 
July  last,  when  she  was  dusting  Pickwick's  apartment  1 


252  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOK   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  Cluppins.   Yes,  my  lord  and  jury,  I  do. 

Buz.  ]Vir.  Pickwick's  room  was  on  the  first  floor  front,  I 
believe  1 

Mrs.  C.    Yes,  it  were,  sir. 

Judge.    What  were  you  doing  in  the  back  room,  ma'am  1 

Mrs.  C.    My  lord  and  jury,  I  won't  deceive  you  — 

Judge.    You  had  better  not,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  C.  I  was  there  vinbekuown  to  Mrs.  Bardell.  I  had 
been  out  with  a  little  basket,  gentlemen,  to  buy  three  pounds 
of  red  kidney  purtaties,  —  which  was  three  pound  for  two- 
pence ha'penny,  —  when  I  see  Mrs.  Bardell's  street-door  on 
the  jar. 

Judge.    On  the  what  1 

Snub.    Partly  open,  my  lord. 

Judge.   She  said  on  the  jar. 

Snub.    It  's  all  the  same,  my  lord. 

Mrs.  C.  I  walked  in,  gentlemen,  just  to  say  good  momin', 
and  went,  in  a  permiscuous  manner,  up  stairs,  and  into  the 
back  room.  Gentlemen,  there  was  the  sound  of  voices  in 
the  front  room,  and  — 

Buz.    And  you  listened,  I  believe,  Mrs.  Cluppins  1 

Mrs.  C.  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  I  would  scorn  the  hac- 
tion.  The  voices  was  very  loud,  sir,  and  forced  themselves 
upon  my  ear. 

Buz.  Well,  Mrs.  Cluppins,  you  were  not  listening,  but  you 
heard  the  voices.     Was  one  of  those  voices  Pickwick's  1 

Mrs.  C.    Yes,  it  were,  sir. 

Buz.    Tell  us  what  you  heard,  Mrs.  Cluppins,  if  you  please. 

Mrs.  C.    I  heard  Mr.  Pickwick's  voice,  my  lord  and  jury. 

Buz.    Yes,  yes,  I  know  ;  but  what  did  you  hear  him  say? 

Mrs.  C.  Ml'.  Pickwick  said,  my  lord  and  jury,  that  when 
they  married  it  would  save  Mrs.  Bardell  a  great  deal  of  trou- 
ble. 

Buz.    Well,  what  next  1 

Mrs.  C.  He  said  she  would  have  a  lively  companion,  who  'd 
teach  her  more  tricks  in  a  week  than  she  would  learn  in  a 
year. 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  253 

Buz.    WTiat  more  did  you  hear  ? 

Mrs.  C.  My  lord  and  jury,  I  heard  a  sound  like  a  kiss, 
and  I  peeped  in,  —  I  won't  deceive  you,  gentlemen,  —  and 
his  arms  were  round  Mrs.  Bardell's  neck,  and  he  called  her  a 
good  creature. 

Buz.    That  will  do.     You  can  go  now,  Mrs.  Cluppins. 

Snub.  Wait  a  moment,  Mrs.  Cluppins  ;  I  have  a  few  ques- 
tions to  ask  you.  Pray,  how  do  you  happen  to  know  that 
Mr.  Pickwick  ever  proposed  marriage  to  your  friend,  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell  1     Did  you  hear  it  from  that  lady  1 

Mrs.  C.  Lauk,  sir,  no  !  Everybody  knowed  she  was  en- 
gaged to  Mr.  Pickwick. 

Snub.  All  very  well,  ma'am  ;  but  what  I  ask  is,  how  did 
1/ou  come  to  know  it  1 

Mrs.  C.  Lord  a  mercy,  sir  !  I  was  told  by  Mrs.  Mudberry, 
which  keeps  a  mangle,  and  Mrs.  Bunkin,  which  clear-starches. 

Snub.  Do  you  see  either  of  these  interesting  ladies  in 
court  1     Look  round. 

Mrs.  C.  Bless  me,  sir  !  that  there  lady  looks  wery  like  Mrs. 
Bunkin,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  after  all,  now ;  she  smiles  so 
sweet.     Law  !  there  's  Mrs.  Mudberry. 

Snub.  0,  that  's  Mrs.  Mudberry,  is  it  1  She  's  the  lady 
that  does  clear-starching,  eh  ] 

Mrs.  C.  No,  my  lord  and  jury,  that  lady  keeps  a  mangle, 
and  likewise  goes  a-charing. 

Snub.  I  would  submit  my  lord,  that  my  learned  brother 
has  put  the  wrong  witness  in  the  box.  This  woman  knows 
nothing  of  her  own  knowledge. 

Judge.  Witness,  did  you  ever  hear  the  defendant  say  he 
was  engaged  to  marry  the  plaintiff? 

Mrs.  C.  I  heard  Mr.  Pickwick  ax  Mrs.  Bardell's  little  boy 
if  he  should  like  to  have  another  father,  my  lord. 

Judge.    I  think  that 's  evidence,  Brother  Snubbin. 

Snub.  Now  listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Cluppins,  and  recollect  you 
are  on  your  oath.  Do  you  not  know  that  at  the  time  of 
which  you  speak  Mrs.  Bardell  was  keeping  company  with  the 
baker  1 


254  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs.  C.    Me,  sir  !     How  should  I  know,  sir  ] 

Snub.  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Cluppins,  none  of  that.  Will  you 
swear  that  Mrs.  Bardell  was  not  fond  of  the  baker  ] 

Mrs.  C.  No,  my  lord  and  jury,  I  won't  swear  ;  but  I  think 
the  baker  was  n't  fond  of  Mrs.  Bardell,  or  he  would  n't  have 
married  another  lady. 

Judge.  What  reason  have  you  for  supposing  there  was  any- 
thing at  all  between  the  plaintiff  and  defendant  ] 

Mrs.  C.    Because  Mrs.  Bardell  fainted  right  away. 

Judge.    What  's  that  got  to  do  with  it  1 

Mrs.  C.  Why,  my  lord,  because  Mi-.  Pickwick  asked  her  to 
name  the  day.  When  Cluppins  asked  me  to  name  the  day  I 
fainted  away  stone-dead,  ray  lord  and  jury ;  and  everybody 
that  is  a  lady,  and  behaves  herself  as  sich,  always  do  faint 
away  when  asked  to  do  that. 

Judge.    Did  you  ever  receive  love-letters,  Mrs.  Cluppins  1 

Mrs.  C.    Law,  sir,  —  my  lord,  I  mean. 

Judge.  Before  you  were  married,  did  your  lover  ever  write 
letters  to  jou.1 

Mrs.  C.  When  me  and  Mr.  Cluppins  kept  company,  in 
course  I  received  love-letters,  like  other  ladies. 

Judge.  Did  Mr.  Cluppins  ever  call  you  "  chops  "  as  a  term 
of  endearment,  or  "  tomato  sauce  "  1 

Mrs.  C.  I  should  liked  to  have  caught  him  at  it,  my  lord. 
The  idea ! 

Judge.  ■  What  did  he  call  you,  then  ] 

Mrs.  C.  He  called  me  a  duck,  my  lord  and  jury,  —  his  little 
duck. 

Judge.    Is  he  fond  of  roast  duck  1 

Mrs.  C.    0,  ain't  he,  my  lord  !     And  ingins  too. 

Judge.  If  he  had  been  fond  of  chops  and  tomato  sauce, 
do  you  think  he  might  have  called  you  that  as  a  term  of 
affection  1 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  my  lord,  he  might  have  called  me  his  lamb 
chop. 

Judge.  Ah,  just  so  !  Have  you  any  more  to  ask  the  lady, 
Brother  Snubbin  1 


THE  PICKWICK   TRIAL.  255 

Snub.    No,  my  lord. 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  my  lord  and  jury,  a  lamb  chop.  For  Clup- 
pins  is  a  loving  husband  to  me  (sobs),  though  he  do  be  fond  of 
a  little  drink,  which  there  's  no  denying  of.  He  earns  his 
guinea  a  week  regular,  gentlemen,  in  the  hairdressing  line,  — 
and  I  'm  the  mother  of  eight  children,  my  lord.  It  's  wery 
hard,  my  lord  and  jury,  to  feed  'em  all,  let  alone  clothes 
(cries)  ;  and  Cluppins  he  do  swear  hawful,  he  do,  when  he  have 
had  a  little.  He  goes  to  the  public  dreadful,  that  he  do  (sobs). 
But  he  's  a  good  father,  that  he  is,  my  lord  and  jury,  — least- 
ways, when  he  's  sober. 

Judge.    What,  what,  what  !     What 's  all  that  about  1 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  my  lord,  little  Johnny 's  cutting  his  teeth ; 
and  my  eldest  daughter  Elizabeth  Jane,  she  is  a-taking  care 
of  him ;  and  only  nine  years  old,  my  lord,  and  good  as 
gold.  A  real  blessing  is  children,  my  lord  ;  and  though  they 
will  dirty  themselves  in  the  gutter,  my  lord,  and  plague  one's 
life,  it  's  human  nature,  my  lord  and  jury. 

Judge.  What  's  the  woman  chattering  about  1  Cannot  you 
hold  your  tongue,  madam  1   Turn  her  out  of  court,  somebody ! 

Buz.    Call  Nathaniel  Winkle. 

Clerk.    Nathaniel  Winkle  ! 

Winkle.    Here.    (Steps  into  the  box.) 

Judge,    Don't  look  at  me,  sir ;  look  at  the  jiuy. 

Buz.  Now,  sir,  have  the  goodness  to  let  his  lordship  and 
the  jury  know  what  your  name  is,  will  you  1 

Win.    Winkle. 

Judge.    What 's  your  Christian  name,  sir  ] 

Win.    Nathaniel,  sir. 

Judge.    Daniel ;  any  other  name  ] 

Win.    Nathaniel,  sir  —  my  lord,  I  mean. 

Judge.    Nathaniel  Daniel,  or  Daniel  Nathaniell 

Win.    No,  my  loi-d ;  only  Nathaniel ;  not  Daniel  at  all. 

Judge.    What  did  you  tell  me  it  was  Daniel  for  then,  sir? 

Win.    I  did  n't,  my  lord. 

Judge.  You  did,  sir.  How  could  I  have  it  on  my  notes, 
\mless  you  told  me  so,  sir  ] 


256  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Buz.    Mr.  Winkle  has  rather  a  short  memory,  my  lord.' 
We  shall  find  meaus  to  refresh  it  before  we  have  quite  done, 
I  dare  say. 

Judge.    You  had  better  be  careful,  sir. 

Buz.  Now,  Mr.  Winkle,  attend  to  me,  if  you  please,  sir, 
and  let  me  recommend  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  bear  in 
mind  his  lordship's  injunctions  to  be  careful.  I  believe  you 
are  a  particular  friend  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  defendant,  are 
you  not ] 

Win.  I  have  known  Mr.  Pickwick  now,  as  well  as  I  can 
recollect  at  this  moment,  nearly  — 

Buz.  Pray,  Mr.  Winkle,  do  not  evade  the  question.  Are 
you,  or  are  you  not,  a  particular  friend  of  the  defendant's  1 

Win.    I  was  just  about  to  say  that  — 

Buz.    Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  answer  my  question,  sir  1 

Judge.  If  you  don't  answer  the  question  you  '11  be  com- 
mitted, sir. 

Buz.    Come,  sir  ;  yes  or  no,  if  you  please. 

Win.    Yes,  I  am. 

Buz.  Yes,  you  are.  And  why  could  n't  you  have  said  that 
at  once,  sir  1  Perhaps  you  know  the  plaintiff,  too  ;  eh,  Mr. 
Winkle  ] 

Win.    I  don't  know  her.     I  've  seen  her. 

Buz.  0,  you  don't  know  her,  but  you  've  seen  her.  Now 
have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  what  you 
mean  by  that,  Mr.  Winkle. 

Win.  I  mean  that  I  am  not  intimate  with  her,  but  that  I 
'have  seen  her  when  I  went  to  call  on  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  Gos- 
well  Street. 

Buz.    How  often  have  you  seen  her,  sir  1 

Win.    How  often  1 

Buz.  Yes,  Mr.  Winkle,  how  often  1  I  '11  repeat  the  ques- 
tion for  you  a  dozen  times,  if  you  require  it,  sir. 

Win.    How  often  1     Why,  a  good  many  times. 

Buz.    I  ask  you,  sir,  how  many  times  1 

Win.  Well,  let  me  see.  Really,  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
say  with  accuracy. 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  257 

Buz.    Have  you  seen  her  twenty  times,  sir? 

Wix.    0  yes  !  more  than  that. 

Buz.    More  than  that  1     A  hundred  times  1 

Win.    No,  I  think  not  so  frequently. 

Buz.   Will  you  swear  you  have  not  seen  her  fifty  times  1 

AViN.    I  cannot  be  certain. 

Buz.  Do  you  venture  to  swear  you  have  n't  seen  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell  fifty  times  1  Come,  sir,  recollect  you  are  on  oath.  Speak 
out! 

Win.  Well,  I  think  it  is  possible  I  may  have  seen  her  fifty 
times. 

Buz.    You  are  a  pretty  fellow  to  prevaricate  in  this  manner  ! 

Judge.  You  had  better  mind  what  you  are  about,  sir,  or  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  commit  you. 

Buz.  Pray,  Mr.  Winkle,  do  you  remember  calling  on  the 
defendant  Pickwick  at  those  apartments  in  the  plaintiff's 
house,  in  Goswell  Street,  on  one  particular  morning  in  the 
month  of  July  last  1 

Win.    Yes,  I  do. 

Buz.  Now,  sir,  tell  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  what  you 
saw  on  entering  the  defendant's  room  on  this  particular  morn- 
mg.     Come,  out  with  it,  sir  ;  we  must  have  it  sooner  or  later. 

Win.  The  defendant,  Mr.  Pickwick,  was  holding  the  plain- 
tiff in  his  arms,  with  his  hands  clasping  her  waist,  and  the 
plaintiff"  appeared  to  have  fainted  away. 

Buz.    Did  you  hear  the  defendant  say  anything  1 

Win.  I  heard  him  call  Mrs.  Bardell  a  good  creature,  and  I 
heard  him  ask  her  to  compose  herself,  for  what  a  situation  it 
was,  if  anybody  should  come ;  or  words  to  that  effect. 

Buz.  Now,  Mr.  Winkle,  I  have  only  one  more  question  to 
ask  you,  and  I  beg  you  to  bear  in  mind  his  lordship's  caution. 
Will  3'ou  undertake  to  swear  that  Pickwick,  the  defendant, 
did  not  say  on  the  occasion  in  question,  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell, you  're  a  good  creature  ;  compose  yourself  in  this  situa- 
tion, for  to  this  situation  you  must  come,"  or  words  to  that 
eff"ect  ] 

Win.    I  —  I  did  n't  understand  him  so,  certainly.     I  was 

Q 


258  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

on  the  staircase,  and  could  n't  hear  distinctly ;  the  impression 
on  my  mind  is  — 

Buz.  The  gentlemen  of  the  jury  want  none  of  the  impres- 
sions on  your  mind,  Mr.  Winkle.  You  were  on  the  staircase 
and  did  n't  distinctly  hear ;  but  you  will  not  swear  that 
Pickwick  did  not  make  use  of  the  expressions  I  have  quoted  ] 
Do  I  imderstand  that  ■? 

Win.    No,  I  will  not. 

Buz.    Ah,  I  thought  so.     (Sits  down.) 

Snub,  [stands  up).  I  believe,  Mr.  Winkle,  that  Mr.  Pickwick 
is  not  a  young  man. 

Win.    0  no ;  old  enough  to  be  my  father. 

Snub.  You  have  told  my  learned  friend  that  you  have 
known  Mr.  Pickwick  a  long  time.  Had  you  ever  any  reason 
to  suppose  or  believe  that  he  was  about  to  be  married  1 

Win.    0  no  ;  certainly  not. 

Snub.  I  will  even  go  further  than  this,  Mr.  Winkle.  Did 
you  ever  see  anything  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  manner  and  conduct 
towai'ds  the  opposite  sex  to  induce  you  to  believe  that  he  ever 
contemplated  matrimony  of  late  years,  in  any  case  1 

Win.    0  no  ;  certainly  not. 

Snub.  Has  his  behavioi',  when  females  have  been  in  the 
case,  always  been  that  of  a  man  who,  having  attained  a  pretty 
advanced  pei'iod  of  life,  treats  them  as  a  father  might  his 
daughters  1 

Win,  Not  the  least  doubt  of  it.  That  is — yes  —  0  yes 
—  certainly. 

Snub.  You  have  never  known  anything  in  his  behavior  to- 
wards Mrs.  Bardell,  or  any  other  female,  in  the  least  degree 
suspicious  1 

Win.  N — n — no,  except  on  one  trifling  occasion,  which 
I  have  no  doubt  might  be  easily  explained. 

Snub.   You  may  go,  Mr.  Winkle.    (Sits  down.) 

Buz.  (rises).  Stay,  Mr.  Winkle,  stay.  Will  your  lordship 
have  the  goodness  to  ask  him,  what  this  one  instance  of  sus- 
picious behavior  towards  females  on  the  part  of  this  gentle- 
man, who  is  old  enough  to  be  his  father,  was  ] 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  259 

Judge.  You  hear  what  the  learned  counsel  says,  sir.  De- 
scribe the  occasion  to  which  you  refer. 

Win.    My  lord,  I  —  I  'd  rather  not. 

Judge.    Perhaps  so  ;  but  you  must. 

Win.    There  was  a  spinster  lady  at  Ipswich,  my  lord. 

Judge.    Well  ! 

Wix.  Perhaps,  my  lord,  it  would  be  better  to  ask  Mr. 
Pickwick  himself.     There  he  is,  my  lord. 

Judge.  If  you  waste  the  time  of  the  court  any  longer,  I  '11 
commit  you. 

Win.  Mr.  Pickwick,  my  lord,  was  —  was  —  found,  my  lord, 
in  a  chamber,  my  lord. 

Judge.  Well,  what  of  that  1  I  suppose  he  went  there  to 
sleep.     It  was  night,  I  suppose  1 

Win.    Yes,  my  lord,  midnight. 

Judge.  I  don't  see,  Brother  Buzfuz,  that  you  can  make 
anything  of  this,  because  even  if  Pickwick  was  committing 
a  burglary,  this  is  not  the  court  to  try  him. 

Buz.  Ask  the  witness,  my  lord,  what  concern  the  spinster 
lady  had  in  the  matter. 

Judge.    Answer  the  question,  sir. 

Win.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  the  marriage 
was  broken  off,  because  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  —  my  —  lord. 

Judge.    Because  Pickwick  changed  his  mind  1 

Win.  No,  my  lord.  Pickwick,  quite  accidentally,  my  lord, 
was  —  my  lord  —  yes,  my  lord,  —  with  his  nightcap  on,  my 
lord,  —  he  would  have  taken  it  off  out  of  respect  of  the  lady's 
feelings,  my  lord,  but  the  strings  were  in  a  knot,  my  lord, 
and  he  could  n't  get  it  off,  my  lord,  and  —  and  —  the  lady,  my 
lord,  —  lady  she  —  she  —  that 's  all,  my  lord. 

Judge.  Don't  tell  me,  sir.  Where  was  the  lady  all  this 
time  1 

Win.  She  was  taking  off  her  things,  my  lord  ;  putting  up 
her  back  hair,  my  lord. 

Judge.    What !  before  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  the  same  room  1 

Win.    Yes,  my  lord. 

Judge.    And  Mr.  Pickwick  had  his  nightcap  on  !     0,  0, 


260  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

I  see  it  all  now  !     And  the   lady  engaged  to  another  gentle- 
man, was  she  1     You  may  go  now,  Mr.  Winkle,  if  you  like. 

[Winkle  retires. 
Buz.    Call  Samuel  Weller. 

Mr.  Weller  steps  briskly  into  the  box. 

Judge.   What 's  your  name,  sir  1 

Sam.   Sam  Weller,  my  lord. 

Judge.    Do  you  spell  it  with  a  V,  or  a  W 1 

Sam.  That  depends  upon  the  taste  and  fancy  of  the  speller, 
my  lord.  I  never  had  occasion  to  spell  it  more  than  once 
or  twice  in  my  life,  but  I  spell  it  with  a  V. 

Mr.  Weller,  senior  {from  the  audience).  Quite  right,  too,  Sam- 
ivel.     Put  it  down  a  "We,"  my  lord;  put  it  down  a  "We." 

Judge.  Who  is  that  who  dares  address  the  court  ]  Do 
you  know  who  that  was,  witness  ? 

Sam.  Yes,  my  lord.  I  rayther  suspect  it  was  my  father, 
my  lord. 

Judge.    Do  you  see  him  here,  now  ? 

Sam.  (looking  up  to  the  ceiling).     No,  I  don't,  my  lord. 

Judge.  If  you  could  have  pointed  him  out,  I  would  have 
committed  him  instantly. 

Sam.    Thank  ye,  my  lord. 

Buz.    Now,  Mr,  Weller. 

Sam.    Now,  sir. 

Buz.  I  believe  you  are  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the 
defendant  in  this  case  1     Speak  up,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam.  I  mean  to  speak  up,  sir.  I  am  in  the  service  o'  that 
'ere  gen'l'man,  and  a  wery  good  service  it  is. 

Buz.    Little  to  do,  and  plenty  to  get,  I  suppose  ? 

Sam.  0,  quite  enough  to  get,  sir,  as  the  soldier  said  ven 
they  ordered  him  three  hundred  and  fifty  lashes. 

Judge.  You  must  not  tell  us  what  the  soldier,  or  any  other 
man,  said,  sir ;  it  's  not  evidence. 

Sam.    Wery  good,  my  lord. 

Buz.  Do  you  recollect  anything  particular  happening  on 
the  morning  when  you  were  first  engaged  by  the  defendant, 
eh,  Mr.  Weller  1 


THE   PICKWICK   TRIAL.  261 

Sam.    Yes,  I  do,  sir. 

Buz.    Have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  jury  what  it  was. 

Sam.  I  had  a  reg'lar  new  fit  out  o'  clothes  that  mornin', 
gen'l'men  of  the  jury,  and  that  was  a  weiy  partickler  and 
uncommon  circumstance  vith  me  in  those  days. 

Judge.    You  had  better  be  careful,  sir. 

Sam.    So  Mr.  Pickwick  said  at  the  time,  my  lord ;  and  I 

was  wery  careful  o'  that  'ere  suit  o'  clothes,  —  wery  careful 

•  indeed,  my  lord. 

The  Judge,   eying    Sam  douhtfuUy  over  his   spectacles,  motions  Bozrcz 

to  go  on. 

Buz.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,  that  you  saw 
nothing  of  this  fainting  on  the  part  of  the  plaintiff  in  the 
arms  of  the  defendant,  which  you  have  heard  described  by 
the  witnesses  1 

Sam.  Certainly  not ;  I  was  in  the  passage  till  they  called 
me  up,  and  then  the  old  lady  was  not  there. 

Buz.  Now  attend,  Mr.  Weller.  You  were  in  the  passage 
and  yet  you  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  forward.  Have 
you  a  pair  of  eyes,  Mr.  Weller  % 

Sam.  Yes,  I  have  a  pair  of  eyes,  and  that  's  just  it.  If 
they  was  a  pair  o'  patent  double  million  magnifyin'  gas 
microscopes  of  hextra  power,  p'rhaps  I  might  be  able  to  see 
through  a  flight  o'  stairs  and  a  deal  door  ;  but  bein'  only  eyes, 
you  see,  my  wision  's  limited. 

Buz.  Now,  Mr.  Weller,  I  '11  ask  you  a  question  on  another 
point,  if  you  please. 

Sam.    If  you  please,  sir. 

Buz.  Do  you  remember  going  up  to  Mrs.  Bardell's  house 
one  night  in  November  last  1 

Sam.    0  yes,  wery  well. 

Buz.  0,  you  do  remember  that,  Mr.  Weller  ;  I  thought  we 
should  get  at  something  at  last. 

Sam.    I  rayther  thought  that,  too,  sir. 

Buz.  Well,  I  suppose  you  went  up  to  have  a  little  talk 
ibout  this  trial,  eh,  Mr.  Weller  ? 

Sam.  I  went  up  to  pay  the  rent ;  but  we  did  get  a  talkin' 
about  the  trial. 


262  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Buz.  0,  you  did  get  a  talkin'  abovit  the  trial !  Now,  what 
passed  about  the  trial  1  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us, 
Mr.  Weller  1 

Sam.  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  sir.  Arter  a  few  unim- 
portant observations  from  the  wirtuous  female  as  has  been 
examined  here  to-day,  the  ladies  gets  into  a  wery  great  state 
o'  admiration  at  the  honorable  conduct  of  Mr.  Dodson  and 
Fogg,  —  them  two  genTmen  as  is  sittin'  over  there. 

Buz.  The  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff.  Well,  they  spoke  in 
high  praise  of  the  honorable  conduct  of  Messrs.  Dodson  and 
Fogg,  the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,  did  they  1 

Sam.  Yes  ;  they  said  what  a  wery  gen'rous  thing  it  was  o' 
them  to  have  taken  up  the  case  on  spec,  and  to  charge  nothin' 
at  all  for  costs,  unless  they  got  'em  out  of  Mr.  Pickwick. 

Buz.  It  's  perfectly  useless,  my  lord,  attempting  to  get  at 
any  evidence  through  the  impenetrable  stupidity  of  this  wit- 
ness. I  will  not  trouble  the  court  by  asking  him  any  more 
questions.     Stand  down,  sir. 

Sam.   Would  any  other  gen'l'man  like  to  ask  me  anythin'  1 

Snub.    Not  I,  Mr.  Weller ;  thank  you. 

Buz.    You  may  go  down,  sir.     That 's  my  case,  my  lud. 

Snub.  My  lud,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  rise  to  address 
you  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  defendant  in  this  case  j 
and  never,  in  the  course  of  my  experience  as  an  advocate, 
have  I  had  a  case  placed  in  my  hands  in  which  I  felt  more 
confidence  of  a  favorable  verdict,  both  from  the  merits  of  the 
case  itself,  and  from  the  intelligence  brought  to  its  consider- 
ation by  the  high-minded,  independent,  and  intellectual  jury 
whom  I  have  now  the  honor  to  address. 

Gentlemen,  my  learned  brother  has  expatiated  with  his 
customary  eloquence  and  ingenuity  upon  the  imaginary 
wrongs  of  this  angling  widow  ;  and  when  I  say  angling  widow, 
let  me  be  distinctly  understood,  gentlemen,  as  meaning  all 
that  those  words  imply.  With  all  due  respect  to  the  weaker 
sex,  gentlemen,  whom  I  honor,  and  whom  you  honor,  I  say 
angling,  gentlemen,  and  I  say  widow,  and  I  put  the  words 
together,  and  deliberately,  emphatically,    and   unqualifiedly 

3peat,  ANGLING    WIDOW  ! 


THE  PICKWICK   TRIAL.  263 

For,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  let  me  beg  you  to  bring  to 
bear  for  a  moment  upon  this  extraordinary  case  the  intelli- 
gence which  I  see  beaming  in  your  countenances  ;  and  to  go 
back  with  me  to  that  deceitful  placard  which,  according  to 
my  learned  brother's  own  showing,  was  placed  in  the  plain- 
tiff's window  in  Goswell  Street  :  "  Apartments  furnished,  for 
a  single  gentleman.  Inquire  within."  Why  single  gentle- 
man, gentlemen  of  the  jury  \  Obviously,  because  no  gentle- 
man who  was  not  single  would  suit  her  artful  purposes.  She 
was  not  angling  for  fish  already  caught,  but  for  some  fine, 
plump,  unsuspecting  gudgeon  {waving  hand  towards  Pickwick), 
still  sporting,  free  and  happy,  in  the  liquid  element  of  single 
blessedness.  In  short,  she  was  a  widow,  gentlemen,  and  none 
but  single  gentlemen  were  in  demand.  And  the  moment,  the 
fatal  moment,  when  she  had  inveigled  one  —  I  will  add,  this 
one  —  to  set  foot  in  those  dangerous  lodgings  in  Goswell 
Street,  she  considered  her  prey  secure  ;  for  if,  in  the  innocence 
and  integrity  of  his  soul,  he  should  remain  insensible  to  her  arts, 

—  as  really  happened,  —  there  remained  a  breach  of  promise 
case  to  be  trumped  up,  and  undertaken  "  on  spec,"  as  one 
witness  has  aptly  phrased  it,  by  a  couple  of  crafty  attorneys. 

Thus  the  spider,  Bardell,  ensnared  the  fly,  Pickwick,  or 
attempted  to  ensnare  him,  as  she  might  have  attempted, 
gentlemen,  to  ensnare  one  of  you.     Foi",  if  I   mistake   not, 

—  and  if  I  do  mistake  I  beg  to  be  corrected,  —  there  is 
not  a  gentleman  before  me  who  has  not  some  time  in  his 
life  been  single,  if  not  single  to-day.  Make  the  case  your 
own,  gentlemen.  You  are  single,  and  yovi  are  in  search  of 
lodgings,  and  you  see  the  plaintiff's  placard  in  the  window  in 
Goswell  Street,  and  are  taken  in.  You  are  noted  for  your 
benevolence  and  urbanity.  You  take  notice  of  her  little  bo}' ; 
perhaps  you  even  go  so  far  in  your  condescension  as  to  allude 
to  "alley  tors"  and  "  commoneys  "  when  you  meet  him  on 
the  stairs.  You  treat  her  respectfully  in  her  own  house,  and 
in  your  absence  limit  your  correspondence  to  the  subject 
of  chops,  tomato  sauce,  and  warming-pans.  Now,  what  is 
there  in  warming-pans  1     Gentlemen  of  the  jury,   I   repeat, 


264  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

what  is  there  in  warming-pans,  chops,  and  tomato  sauce  1 
And  when  this  designing  female  faints,  or  pretends  to  faint,  — 
yes,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  pretends  to  faint,  —  in  your  pres- 
ence, relying  upon  your  goodness  of  heart  and  humanity  not 
to  let  her  fall,  and,  true  to  your  nature,  you  do  not  let  her 
fall,  what  is  there  in  that  act  which  should  render  you  liable 
to  a  suit  for  damages  1 

But,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  this  case  is  so  plain  that  argu- 
ment seems  superfluous  ;  and  I  leave  my  client  in  your  hands, 
relying  iipon  your  intelligence,  your  sound  judgment,  and 
uprightness  to  give  him  an  honorable  acquittal,  and  at  the 
same  time,  by  your  just  verdict,  to  show  to  those  matrimonial 
brigands  that  they  must  not  look  to  a  jury  of  high-minded 
English  gentlemen  to  assist  them  in  their  villanous  designs. 

Judge.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury !  You  have  listened  with 
great  patience  to  the  arguments  of  my  learned  brothers  and  to 
the  evidence  they  have  laid  before  you.  The  chief  point  de- 
pends upon  the  defendant's  letters  to  the  plaintiff,  which  are 
admitted  to  be  in  his  handwriting.  You  have  heard  that  he 
called  her  by  the  endearing  epithet  of  "  chops  and  tomato 
sauce  " ;  and  one  witness,  a  lady  of  great  respectability,  who 
gave  her  evidence,  I  am  bound  to  say,  with  great  fairness, 
told  us  that  it  depended  entirely  upon  what  a  gentleman 
liked  in  the  way  of  eating,  whether  he  called  his  sweetheart 
by  one  name  or  another,  she  hei'self  having  been  called  a  duck 
because  her  lover  was  fond  of  that  bird.  Now,  gentlemen,  on 
turning  to  the  law-books  I  find  a  precedent  quite  in  point. 
It  is  recorded  in  "  Nickleby,"  a  work  of  high  authority,  that 
in  the  case  of  "Mantalini  v.  Mantalini,"  the  husband  called 
his  wife  "  essential  juice  of  pine-apple,"  no  doubt  because  he 
was  fond  of  rum  made  from  that  delicious  fruit.  I  would  also 
refer  to  another  legal  authority,  by  whom  it  is  declared,  — 

"  Love  is  like  a  mutton-chop  : 
Sometimes  cold,  and  sometimes  hot." 

Though  nothing  is  expressly  said  about  tomato  sauce  in  this 
case,  yet  we  are  justified  in  supposing  the  defendant  Pickwick 
intended  to  express  superlative  afiection  in  adding  sauce  to 


THE  PICKWICK   TRIAL.  265 

the  "  chops,"  -which  he  undoubtedly  called  the  plaintiff,  Mrs. 
Bardell.  I  also  find,  by  reference  to  a  case  decided  by  the 
Chief  Justice  of  Pekin,  that  "  a  first  chop  lady  "  is  one  who 
is  generally  admired,  and  from  Linnseus  I  gather  that  the 
"  tomato,"  of  which  the  defendant's  sauce  is  made,  is  synony- 
mous with  "  love-apple."  Therefore  there  can  be  no  reason- 
able doubt  but  that  to  call  a  lady  "  chops  and  tomato  sa'-xce  "  is 
in  the  highest  degree  significant  of  aftection  ;  and  1  would 
also  add,  gentlemen,  —  though  it  will  naturally  occur  to  your- 
selves, —  that,  chops  and  ribs  being  synonymous,  our  first 
mother  must  have  been  one  of  Adam's  chops  ;  and  the  conclu- 
sion is  inevitable  that  the  defendant  led  the  plaintiff,  by  some- 
what symbolical  language,  to  believe  that  he  wished  her  to  hold 
the  same  loving  relation  in  respect  to  himself  as  Eve  did  to 
Adam.  If  anything  more  were  wanting  to  show  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  expression,  I  would  remind  you  that  when  a  man 
admires  a  woman  he  is  said  to  look  at  her  like  the  animal 
from  which  chops,  either  mutton  or  lamb,  are  cut,  —  that  is,  he 
casts  sheep's  eyes  at  her  :  all  of  which  I  think,  gentlemen, 
goes  to  show  the  real  meaning  of  the  defendant's  expression 
of  "  chops  and  tomato  sauce."  Well,  gentlemen,  if  you  are  of 
the  opinion  I  have  expressed,  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in 
finding  a  verdict  for  the  plaintiff,  with  such  damages  as  may 
seem  reasonable.  I  need  hardly  say  that  if  Mrs.  Bardell  be 
right,  Mr.  Pickwick  must  be  wrong ;  and  if  you  think  the 
evidence  of  Mrs.  Cluppins  worthy  of  credence,  you  will  of 
course  believe  it ;  and  if  you  don't  you  won't.  Now,  gentle- 
men, it  is  for  you  to  give  a  verdict. 

Crier.   Silence  in  the  court ! 

Clerk.   Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  are  you  all  agi-eed  ? 

Jury.    We  are. 

Clerk.    Do  you  find  for  the  defendant  or  the  plaintifi"? 

Jury.    For  the  plaintiff".     Damages  £  700. 

Mr.  Weller,  senior  (from  the  audience).  0  Sammy,  Sammy, 
i^y  boy !  vy  wom't  there  a  halebi  ]  [Exeunt  wioies. 

12 


266  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 


GOLDEN   PIPPINS. 

A    THANKSGIVING    DRAMA. 

Mark  Douglass,  a  captain  in  the  army ;  Jennings,  a  lieutenant ;  Eachel 
Martin,  engageA  to  Douglass  ;  Mrs.  Martin,  her  mother ;  Widow 
Taylor  ;  Patrick. 

Scene  I.  —  A  country  parlor.  Enter  Rachel  with  a  rustic  hat  on,  carrying 
a  basket  of  wild-Jlowers  and  autumn  leaves.     Mark  DouGLASsyb/foii's. 

MARK.  Now,  Rachel,  seriously,  you  are  not  vexed  with 
me  1  (Rachel  keeps  her  face  turned  from  him,  as  she  pulls  to  pieces 
the  wild  flowers  in  her  basket.)  Rachel  !  (A  pause.)  You  do  not  un- 
derstand me.  Do  you  think  I  forget  you  when  the  question 
comes  home  to  me  whether  I  should  join  the  army  or  not  1 
You  do  not  know  me  if  you  think  so.  You  were  the  first  one 
I  thought  of ;  and  I  said,  She  is  patriotic  ;  she  will  take  pride 
in  bidding  me  go  to  help  defend  our  country.  Ray —  dearest — 
( Trying  to  take  her  hand. ) 

Rachel  (snatching  away  her  hand).  Dearest  !  As  if  I  could  be- 
lieve that !  Going  off  to  be  gone  three  years,  and  never  even 
telling  me  you  had  a  thought  of  enlisting.  Why,  Keziah 
Truman's  beau  never  so  much  as  goes  to  Boston  without  ask- 
ing her  leave.  And  Charlie  Jenkins,  he  said  he  should  never 
even  wish  to  do  a  thing  without  consulting  my  wishes ! 

Mark  {impatiently).  Charlie  Jenkins !  What  is  he  tome? 
What  is  he  to  you  ? 

Rachel.  Nothing  now.  But  he  might  have  been  !  And 
perhaps  —  if  I  had  known  —  It  would  be  all  very  well  if  you 
should  join  the  "  Home  Guards."  A  uniform  becomes  you ; 
I  should  n't  object  to  the  martial  eclat.  But  to  go  down 
among  those  rebels  without  even  consulting  my  wishes  in  the 
matter,  is  altogether  a  different  thing. 

Mark.  I  see  you  are  in  no  mood  to  discuss  this  matter  im- 
partially just  now,  Rachel.  I  had  thought  to  find  you  feeling 
differently. 

Rachel.    In  no  mood !  I  beg  your  pardon.  Captain  Douglass 


GOLDEN   PIPPINS.  267 

{petulantly),  it  is  n't  at  all  necessaiy  to  discuss  a  matter  so  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  me. 

Mark.  Rachel,  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  engage- 
ment. 

Rachel  {sharply).  Engagement !  I  am  tired  of  an  engage- 
ment that  only  fetters  one  party,  while  the  other  is  free  as 
air. 

Mark.     Tired  !     ( Hesitating  a  moment,  as  if  striving  to  command  his 

voice.)     Do  you  wish  to  be  released,  Ray]     Tell  me,  —  yes  or 

no  !     (Sternly.) 

Rachel  {with  pettish  abruptness).      Yes! 

Mark.    Then  good  by,  Ray.  [Exit. 

RxcRBh  (looking  ajler  him) .  Gone?  Gone  1  0  no  !  it  can- 
not be  !  He  will  be  back  !  He  could  not  stay  away  —  Stop  ! 
The  regiment  starts  to-morrow  morning.  He  has  gone  back 
to  the  camp.  I  may  not  —  I  cannot  see  him  again.  (Covers 
her  face  with  her  hands  ;  then  looks  at  her  ring.)  My  engagement-ring, 
I  ouglit  to  have  returned  it  to  him.  I  will  —  some  time  !  And 
yet  —  how  can  11  I  can  almost  seem  to  hear  his  voice,  as 
he  said,  when  he  put  this  little  turquoise  ring  on  my  finger, 
"  Let  it  be  a  token  between  us,  dearest,  like  the  signet-rings 
of  old  times.  Wherever  I  may  be,  this  ring  will  always  bring 
my  heart  back  to  its  queen."     And  now  —     (Bursts  into  tears.) 

Scene  II.  —  Mrs.  Martin's  kitchen.  A  table  on  which  are  seen  apples,  a 
squash,  pan  of  flour,  etc.  Mrs.  M.  making  preparations  to  bake  pies  ; 
Rachel  dreamily  watching  her. 

Mrs.  M.  I  wonder  how  many  pies  I  ought  to  make  for 
Thanksgiving.  Let's  see,  —  ten  squash-pies, — your  father 
thinks  a  heap  of  my  squash-pies,  —  five  apple,  ten  mince  ; 
and  then  I  might  as  well  use  up  some  o'  them  air  cranberries 
from  the  south  lot.     That  '11  be  enough,  won't  it  'i 

Rachel.    AVhat,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  M.  Law,  child,  what  are  you  dreaming  about?  Lucky 
your  father  don't  have  to  depend  on  you  for  his  dinners. 
He  'd  fare  like  Job's  turkey,  I  'm  thinking.  (A  knock.)  Hark  ! 
who  's  coming  1      ( Goes  to  the  door.    Enter  Widow  Taylor.) 

Widow  T.    How  do  you  do,  Miss  Martin  ?   Glad  to  see  you. 


268  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mbs.  M.    Thank  you.      Glad  to  see  you.     Take  a  chair. 

{Placing  rocking-chair  hy  thejire.) 

Widow  T.  Thankee,  Miss  Martin  ;  my  feet  is  cold.  Won't 
you  take  the  rocking-cheer  yourself? 

Mrs.  M.    No,  thank  you ;  sit  down. 

Widow  T.  Dretful  keen  wind,  ain't  it  1  ( Untying  the  strings  of 
her  worsted  hood.)  Powerful  sharp  frost  last  night.  Deacon 
Pettibone's  dahlias  is  black  as  soot,  and  all  Miss  Morrison's 
mornin'-glories  is  blasted.  Why,  Rachel,  child,  what  ails 
you  1  All  the  neighbors  are  talkin'  'bout  how  you  've  changed  ! 

Rachel  {turning  away  embarrassed)-      I  am  well  enough. 

Mrs.  M.  Here,  child,  take  this  dish  of  a^Dples,  and  be 
a-peelin'  'em.     We  've  got  lots  to  do  to-day. 

Widow  T.  {in  a  mysterious  whisper).  I  tell  ye  what.  Miss 
Martin  :  you  jest  take  a  double  handful  o'  green  wilier-bark, 
and  bile  it  up  well,  —  or  snakeroot-tea  ain't  bad,  —  and  give 
her  a  pint  night  and  mornin'.  It 's  the  most  strengthening 
thing  !  But  I  've  come  round  to  tell  you  what  the  Women's 
Committee  have  decided  on. 

Mrs.  M.  {inquiringly).     Ah,  indeed"? 

Widow  T.  We  all  feel  to  be  dretful  thankful  the  harvest  's 
been  so  good,  and  —  and  —  everything  's  fetched  up  jest  about 
right ;  and  so  we  thought  it  would  be  kind  o'  squarin'  up  with 
a  marciful  Providence  to  send  a  box  or  tew  o'  things  out  to 
them  poor  soldiers  that 's  a  fightin'  like  all  possessed  !  It 's 
only  accordin'  to  Scripter,  you  know,  and  it  would  be  a  kind 
o'  nice  little  Thauksgivin'  gift,  now  would  n't  it  1  {Drooping  her 
eyelids  sanctimoniously.)  Miss  Darby  's  kindly  gin  us  a  bushel  o' 
them  sweet-potatoes  they  raised  in  the  south  pasture-lot. 
They  're  a  little  damaged,  not  exactly  fit  for  market,  but 
there  's  no  doubt  the  soldiers  '11  be  glad  to  get  'em ;  and  Miss 
Deacon  Pettibone  has  promised  us  a  lot  o'  that  there  fer- 
mented peach-sass,  and  Desire  Wallis  has  made  up  a  sight  o' 
book-marks,  and  Widow  Smith  has  cooked  a  peck  o'  dough- 
nuts, without  no  sweetnin'.  Sugar 's  so  high,  and  't  ain't 
likely  the  soldiers  care  for  sweet  stuff.  As  for  me,  I  reely 
don't  like  to  tell  about  my  mite ;  but  I  hunted  up  a  few  o' 


GOLDEN   PIPPINS.  269 

poor  dear  Deacon  Taylor's  old  trousers  and  coats  in  the  gar- 
ret, —  a  little  moth-eaten  and  rather  tender,  but  I  hain't  no 
doubt  they  '11  be  welcome.  Old  Jones  has  giv'  us  half  a  pound 
o'  tea  and  a  pound  o'  candles,  and  Mr.  Meriam  contributes  a 
set  o'  law-books,  that  they  tell  me  is  dretful  iraprovin'  readin'. 
And  the  committee  calc'lated  you  and  Rachel  would  help  us. 

Mrs.  M.    Of  course  we  will,  and  — 

Widow  T.  Then  I  may  as  well  be  stirrin'  (jumping  up),  for 
I  've  got  to  see  Miss  Dr.  Davison  and  Squire  Ladd  yet  to- 
night. Good  evenin'  t'  ye,  —  and  don't  forget  the  wilier-bark 
tea ! 

Mrs.  Martin  and  Rachel  both  burst  out  laughing  as  the  door  closes. 

Mrs.  M.    Poor  Mrs.  Taylor  ! 

Rachel.  Mamma,  how  can  she  1  (Indignantly.)  Such  a 
box  for  the  soldiers  !  Why,  it  would  only  be  an  aggra- 
vation ! 

Mrs.  M.  Never  mind,  Ray,  dear;  we'll  send  something 
worth  having.  I  '11  make  vip  a  lot  of  real  doughnuts,  and 
pack  'em  round  the  biggest  pair  of  turkeys  father  can  find, 
with  a  box  of  little  i^umpkin-pies.  Mighty  smart  it  would 
be  in  us  to  be  willin'  to  have  them  poor  boys  go  off  to  the 
war,  and  then  have  'em  think  we  would  turn  the  cold  shoulder 
on  'em,  and  never  think  of  their  comfort.  Law,  child,  what 
does  ail  ye  1  You  look  as  pale  as  our  field  daisies  do  in  June. 
Do  stir  yourself  up  a  little  !  You  don't  begrudge  a  few  of  our 
goodies,  do  ye  1 

Rachel.  No,  indeed,  I  don't !  I  wish  we  could  send  them 
everything  we  own  in  the  world ! 

Mrs.  M.    We  '11  set  about  it  this  very  day. 

Rachel.    Is  n't  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  1 

Mrs.  M.  Help  1  Of  course  there  is !  You  ain't  no  great 
help  about  the  cookin'.  You  might  get  a  barrel  of  apples 
ready,  and  see  that  there  ain't  a  mean  apple  in  the  lot.  We  '11 
send  a  barrel  o'  them  golden  pippins  from  the  old  tree  beyond 
the  brook,  —  the  kind  Mark  Douglass  liked  so  well. 

Rachel.  That  would  be  the  very  best  thing  to  send,  —  a 
barrel  of  apples ;  they  would  n't  dry  up  like  cake  or  pies. 


270  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mus.  M.    I  '11  get  Patrick  to  bring  in  an  empty  barreL 

{Goes    to   the  doorj  shouts   through  her   hand.)       Patrick!    Patrick,  go 

round  behind  the  barn  and  pick  me  out  a  nice  barrel.  Bring 
it  in  here. 

Pat  {from  without).     Yes,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  M.  Now  I  '11  go  right  ahead  makin'  the  pies  and  cake, 
and  gettin'  the  turkey  ready,  while  you  are  a-fixin'  the  apples. 

Rachel.   Where  shall  I  find  them  1 

Mrs.  M.  They  're  in  the  garret,  in  that  old  green  chest  by 
the  north  window. 

Rachel.    0  yes,  I  know.      {Going  towards  the  door.) 

Mrs.  M.  I  '11  tell  Patrick  to  bring  in  some  clean  straw  to 
pack  'em  in.  Be  sure  and  put  in  a  plenty  to  prevent  their 
mellerin'  against  each  other. 

Rachel.    I  will.     {Going.) 

Mrs.  M.    Mind  and  don't  put  any  specked  ones  in. 

Rachel.    I  '11  look  out  for  that.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  M.  {pausing  in  her  work).  Now  ain't  it  p^ood  to  see  our 
Rachel  takin'  a  little  interest  in  something  1  Law !  I  would 
send  a  box  of  goodies  to  the  soldiers  every  month,  if  I  thought 
she  would  only  spunk  up  a  little  and  help.  Nothin'  like 
givin'  girls  something  to  do  !  I  believe  that  's  half  that  ails 
our  Rachel.  She  don't  have  half  enoush  to  do.  That 's  what 
her  father  's  always  a-preachin',  and  I  believe  he  's  more  'n 
half  right.  {Enter  Patrick,  with  a  barrel.)  That 's  a  good-lookin' 
barrel  ;  put  it  over  here.  (Patrick  moves  towards  the  door,  which  he 
opens.)     Here,  what  are  you  doin'  with  that  air  barrel? 

Pat.  An  sure,  did  n't  you  say  bring  it  into  the  house,  and 
is  n't  the  cellar  the  part  o'  the  house  where  ye  keeps  the  good 
barrels  1 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  sartinly,  but  I  want  it  here  now.  I  am  going 
to  send  it  to  the  soldiers,  and  I  want  you  to  get  me  some  nice 
straw  to  put  in  it. 

Pat.  {gazing  at  the  barrel,  scratching  his  head).  It  '&  Ptraw  ye  're 
going  to  be  sendin'  to  the  soldier-bys,  is  it  1  Bedad,  ye  're 
going  to  trate  them  like  bosses.  Is  it  for  beds  to  the  soldiers 
ye  'd  be  sending  it  1 


GOLDEN   PIPPINS.  271 

Mrs.  M.  (impatiently).  Patrick,  you  do  not  understand,  and 
I  don't  care  if  you  don't  understand.  Get  me  some  straw, 
and  get  it  quick  too  ! 

Pat.  (aside).  By  Saint  Peter  1  I  thought  o'  being  a  soldier- 
by  meself,  but  faith  ye  '11  not  get  Patrick  Flanagan  a  fighting 
i  Dr  the  country,  wid  nothing  but  sthraw  to  ate  when  he  'd  be 
lying  dead  on  the  field.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  M.  What  a  sarcy  feller  that  is  !  How  Mr.  Martin 
can  put  up  with  him  is  more  'n  I  can  tell.  I  wonder  where 
Mr.  Alartin  is  now.  (  Wiping  her  arms  and  hands  on  the  family  towel.) 
I  must  go  and  hunt  him  up,  and  get  him  to  kill  a  pair  of  nice 
fat  turkeys.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Rachel,  vith  her  apron  fidl  of  apples ;  empties  them  near  the  barrel ; 
gets  a  towel  to  wipe  them.  Patrick  comes  blundering  in  with  a  huge  bundle 
of' straw. 

Pat.  Here  's  yer  sthraw,  Miss  Martin,  —  the  best  I  could 
find.  How  many  bundles  more  shall  I  get  ye  1  (Throwing  it  on 
the  foor,  looks  up  with  amazement  at  Rachel.)  Faith,  Miss  Martin 
tould  me  to  be  bringing  in  quick  some  sthraw  for  the  soldiers 
to  ate,  —  and  she 's  gone  intirely.  And  it's  yer  own  swate 
self  that 's  here,  —  and  no  grumbler  aither. 

HaCHEL,  (sternly).      Patrick! 

Pat.  An'  them  's  very  purty  apples  ye  have  there,  sure  ! 
As  fresh  as  the  rose  an  yer  chakes. 

PiACHEL.  This  straw  is  quite  sufficient.  You  may  go, 
Patrick. 

Pat.  (sidling  towards  the  apples).  Say,  ye  wud  n't  mind  me 
taking  an  apple,  wud  ye,  miss  1 

Rachel.  0,  certainly  not.  Here,  take  half  a  dozen.  (Aside.) 
Anything  to  get  rid  of  him. 

Pat.    Thank  ye,  miss  !     Lang  life  to  ye  !     (Goes  off,  singing.) 

Rachel.  What  a  boor !  But  yet  he  has  a  kind  heart ;  and 
it 's  good  to  have  some  one  round  that  is  always  so  bright 
and  cheerful.  (Begins  to  wipe  apples  again,  packing  them  in  the 
barrel.)  Dear  Mark  !  How  I  wish  these  apples  could  go  to 
you  !  I  would  kiss  every  one  of  thorn  !  But  liow  foolisli  to 
think  of  such  a  thing !     Among  so  many  companies  in  the 


272  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

regiment,  it  is  not  at  all  likely  they  would  happen  to  go  to 
him.  And  of  course  I  would  n't  direct  the  baiTel  to  him.  I 
would  n't  dare  to ;  it  would  be  the  town  talk.  Besides,  he 
considers  our  engagement  broken  (sighing),  —  broken  !  He 
may  find  some  one  else  to  love  before  I  see  him  again ! 
(Looking  down  at  the  engagement  finger,  she  misses  her  ring.  She  springs  up, 
letting  the  apples  fiiU  from  her  apron  to  the  floor.)  My  ring  !  (Almost  out 
of  breath.)  I  've  lost  it !  No  matter ;  I  shall  find  it !  How 
foolish  I  am  to  tremble  so  !  (Searches  eagerly  around  the  room.) 
I  —  don't  —  see  —  where  —  it  —  can  be  !  It  can't  have  gone 
through  these  cracks  in  the  floor !  It  is  too  cruel  to  think 
of !  To  think  I  should  have  lost  it !  While  I  wore  it,  I 
could  still  fancy  our  parting  was  a  dream.  (Sits  down,  and,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  apron,  sobs.)      Now  it  is  gone,  —  gone  ! 

Scene  III.  —  The  camp.  Tent  and  stack  of  arms  in  background.  A  sen- 
tinel on  duty.  In  the  foreground  Captain  Mark  Docglass,  with  hammer 
in  hand,  is  opening  a  barrel. 

Jennings  (dancing  round  the  barrel).  A  barrel  of  golden  pip- 
pins !     0  Mars  !  is  n't  it  jolly  ] 

Mark.  We  're  very  much  obliged  to  Company  A.  I  hope 
you  did  n't  forget  that,  Jennings. 

Jennings.  0,  of  course  I  did  the  polite.  Company  A  was 
so  obliging  as  to  send  us  the  barrel,  and  keep  the  great  levi- 
athan of  a  box  for  its  own  delectation.  I  just  wish  you  could 
have  seen  Dodsley's  face  when  he  opened  it ! 

Mark.    What  do  you  mean  1 

Jennings.  Such  a  conglomeration  of  decaying  Carolina 
potatoes,  sour  sweetmeats,  old  rags,  and  law-books  !  I  did  n't 
stop  to  investigate  very  closely,  however  •  it  was  my  interest 
to  roll  the  barrel  down  hill  as  fast  as  possible,  lest  Dodsley 
should  repent  of  his  generosity.  I  confess  I  was  a  little 
nervous  while  you  were  opening  the  barrel,  lest  it  should  con- 
tain cold  victuals  and  pine  kindlings.  Hullo  !  what 's  this  ? 
( Taking  a  slip  of  paper  that  had  lain  beneath  the  lid.)  "A  Thanksgiving 
remembrance  ! "  Much  obliged  to  you,  my  unknown  friend. 
I  '11  keep  m?/  Thanksgiving  now. 

Mark  (catching  the  paper  from  jET<i-si-SGs's  hand.     Aside).     Rachel's 

handwriting ! 


GOLDEN  PIPPINS.  273 

Jenxixgs.  I  must  go  and  tell  the  other  fellows  of  our  good 
luck.  [Exit. 

Mark.  The  same  old  apples  that  used  to  lie  like  spheres 
of  gold  in  the  long  grass  of  the  river  meadow  !  I  thought  I 
knew  them  !  What  —  what  is  this  I  see  among  the  straw  1 
Something  bright.  (Holds  up  the  ring  to  view.)  Now,  is  n't  that 
strange  !  If  I  am  alive,  it  is  the  very  turquoise  ring  I  gave 
to  Rachel  Martin!  {Kisses  it.)  Dear  little  ring!  how  well  I 
remember  when  I  slipped  it  on  to  the  little  brown  finger,  say- 
ing, half  in  play,  holf  in  earnest,  "  Wherever  I  may  be,  this 
ring  will  always  bring  my  heart  back  to  its  queen."  0,  pshaw  I 
what  a  fool !  That  is  all  gone  by.  We  are  nothing  to  each 
other.  If  she  cared  much  for  me,  she  would  have  written 
one  little  line  to  a  fellow.  She  has  written !  This  slip  of 
paper  is  in  her  handwriting.  Did  she  know  1  0,  could  she 
have  known  1  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  get  a  furlough.  God  grant 
she  has  called  me  back  to  her ! 

Scene  IV.  —  Mrs.  Martin's  parlor.    Rachel  sitting  on  a  low  stool  by  the 
fire,  her  head  resting  dejectedly  on  her  hand. 

Rachel.  0  dear  I  what  a  Thanksgiving  Day  this  has  been  ! 
Eveiybody  so  cheerful  and  merry  about  me  ;  and  I  so  sad ! 
How  could  I  go  to  the  party  to-night  with  the  rest  of  the 
folks  !  It  would  have  been  a  perfect  mockery.  It  was  no 
sin  to  tell  them  I  was  not  feeling  well,  when  I  have  such  a 
ten-ible  ache  here.  (Her  hand  on  her  heart.)  Hark  !  Some  of 
them  are  coming  back!  (Starts  up  and  listens.  Mxks.  enters  sofily 
behind  her,  and  gently  lays  his  hand  upon  her  arm.) 

Mark.    Rachel ! 

Rachel.  Mark  !  dear  Mark  !  (Throwing  her  arms  around  him.) 
You  will  never  leave  me  again  ! 

Mark  (holding  her  from  him  and  looking  ardently  into  her  fixce).  I 
will  tell  you  first,  before  I  have  to  go. 

Rachel.    But  how  —  why — what  made  you  come  back? 

Mark.    You  summoned  me,  Ray. 

Rachel.    1 1     Never,  Mark  ! 

Mark  (holds  up  the  turquoise  ring  with  an  arch  look  of  defiance,  and 
all  at  once  the  truth  breaks  upon  her).  Let  me  put  it  CD  your  finger 
12*  K 


274  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

once  again,  Ray,  never  to  be  removed  except  for  the  wedding- 
ring  of  gold ! 

Rachel  [letting  her  head  droop  an  instant  upon  his  shoulder,  and  then 
looJcing  up  through  sparkling  tears).  0  Mark,  I  think  this  will  be 
the  most  real  Thanksgiving  of  my  life  ! 


SCENE  FROM  HENRY  IV. 

Scene,  Bangor.     A  room  in  the  Archdeacon's  house.     Enter  HoTSPUK, 
Worcester,  Mortimer,  and  Glendower. 

HOTSPUR.    Lord  Mortimer,  and  Cousin  Glendower, 
Will  you  sit  down  1 
And  Uncle  Worcester.  —  A  plague  upon  it ! 
I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Glendower.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  Cousin  Percy ;  sit,  good  Cousin  Hotspur,  — 
For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 
Doth  speak  of  you, 

His  cheeks  look  pale,  and  with  a  rising  sigh 
He  wisheth  you  in  Heaven. 

Hot.   And  you  in  Hell  as  often  as  he  hears 
Owen  Glendower  spoke  of 

Glend.  I  cannot  blame  him ;  at  my  nativity, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes, 
Of  burning  cressets  ;  and  at  my  birth 
The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  Earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward. 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done  at  the  same  season  if 
your  mother's  cat  had  but  kitten'd,  though  yourself  had  never 
been  born. 

Glend.    T  say  the  Earth  did  shake  when  I  was  born. 

Hot.    And  I  say  the  Earth  was  not  of  my  mind, 
If  you  suppose  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 

Glend.    The   heavens   were   all   on   fire ;   the   Eai-th  did 
tremble. 


SCENE   FROM   HENRY   IV.  275 

Hot.    0,  then  the  Earth  shook  to  see  the  heavens  on  fire, 
And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions. 

Glexd.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again,  —  that  at  my  birth 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fieiy  shapes ; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  to  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary, 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living,  —  clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  eludes  the  banks  of  England,  Scotland,  Wales,  — 
Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me, 
And  bring  him  out,  that  is  but  woman's  son, 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art, 
And  hold  me  pace  in  deep  experiments'? 

Hot.    I  think  there  is  no  man  speaks  better  Welsh. 
I  '11  to  dinner. 

MoRT.    Peace,  Cousin  Percy  !  you  will  make  him  mad. 

Glend.    I  can  call  up  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 

Hot.    Why,  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man  ; 
But  will  they  come  when  you  do  call  for  them] 

Glend.   Why,  I  can  teach  you,  cousin,  to  command  the 
Devil. 

Hot.    And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  shame  the  Devil 
By  telling  truth.     "  Tell  truth,  and  shame  the  Devil."  — 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  I  '11  be  sworn,  I  have  power  to  shame  him  hence. 
O,  while  yoix  live,  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  Devil. 

MoRT.    Come,  come  ; 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.    Three  times  hath  Henry  Bolingbroke  made  head 
Against  my  power :  thrice  from  the  banks  of  Wye 
And  sandy-bottom'd  Severn  have  I  sent  him, 


276  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Bootless  home,  and  weather-beaten  back. 

Hot.    Home  without  boots,  and  in  foul  weather  too  ! 
How  'scaped  he  agues'? 

Glend.    Come,  here  's  the  map  :  shall  we  divide  our  right, 
According  to  our  threefold  order  ta'en  1 

MoRT.    The  Archdeacon  hath  divided  it 
Into  three  limits,  very  equally. 
England,  from  Trent,  and  Severn  hitherto, 
By  south  and  east  is  to  my  part  assigned ; 
All  westward,  Wales,  beyond  the  Severn  shore, 
And  all  the  fertile  land  within  that  bound, 
To  Owen  Glendower ;  and,  dear  coz,  to  you 
The  remnant  northward,  lying  off  from  Trent. 
And  our  indentures  tripartite  are  drawn, 
Which  being  sealed  interchangeably, 
(A  business  that  this  night  may  execute,) 
To-morrow,  Cousin  Percy,  you  and  I, 
And  my  good  Lord  of  Worcester  will  set  forth 
To  meet  your  father,  and  the  Scottish  power, 
As  is  appointed  us,  at  Shrewsbury. 
My  father  Glendower  is  not  ready  yet. 
Nor  shall  we  need  his  help  these  fourteen  days.  — 
Within  that  space  you  may  have  drawn  together 
Your  tenants,  friends,  and  neighboring  gentlemen. 

Glend.    A  shorter  time  shall  send  me  to  you,  lords ; 
And  in  my  conduct  shall  your  ladies  come,  — 
From  whom  you  now  must  steal,  and  take  no  leave ; 
For  there  will  be  a  world  of  water  shed. 
Upon  the  parting  of  your  wives  and  you. 

Hot.    Metliinks,  my  moiety,  north  from  Burton  here, 
In  quantity  equals  not  one  of  yours. 
See  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in. 
And  cuts  me  from  the  best  of  all  my  land,  — 
A  huge  half-moon,  a  monstrous  cantle  out. 
I  '11  have  the  current  in  this  place  damm'd  up. 
And  here  the  smug  and  silver  Trent  shall  run 
In  a  new  channel,  fair  and  evenly  : 


SCENE   FROM   HENRY  '  IV.  277 

It  shall  not  wiud  with  such  a  deep  indent, 
To  rob  me  of  so  rich  a  bottom  here. 

Glexd.    Not  wind  1  it  shall ;  it  must :  you  see,  it  doth. 

MoRT.    Yea,  but  mark,  how  he  bears  his  course,  and  runs 
me  up 
With  like  advantage  on  the  other  side ; 

Gelding  the  opposed  continent,  as  much  '' 

As  on  the  other  side  it  takes  from  you. 

WoR.    Yea,  but  a  little  charge  will  trench  him  here, 
And  on  this  north  side  win  this  cape  of  land : 
And  then  he  runs  straight  and  even. 

Hot.    I  '11  have  it  so  :  a  little  charge  will  do  it. 

Glend.    I  will  not  have  it  alter'd. 

Hot.  Will  not  you  ? 

Glend.    No,  nor  you  shall  not. 

Hot.  Who  shall  say  me  nay  1 

Glend.    Why,  that  will  I. 

Hot.  Let  me  not  understand  you  then  : 

Speak  it  in  Welsh. 

Glexd.    I  can  speak  English,  Lord,  as  well  as  you. 
For  I  was  train'd  up  in  the  English  court ; 
Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well. 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament,  — 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you. 

Hot.    Marry,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart ! 
I  had  rather  be  a  kitten  and  cry  mew. 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers  : 
I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  can'stick  turn'd. 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  the  axle-tree ;  ^ 

And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 
Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry. 
'T  is  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

Glend.    Come,  you  shall  have  Trent  turn'd. 

Hot.  I  do  not  care. 

I  '11  give  thrice  so  mucli  land  to  any  well-deserving  friend ; 
But,  in  the  way  of  bargain,  mark  ye  me, 


278  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

I  '11  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair. 

Are  the  indentures  drawn  1  shall  we  be  gone  1 

Glend.    The  moon  shines  fair,  you  may  away  by  night : 
I  '11  haste  the  WTiter,  and,  withal. 
Break  with  your  wives  of  your  departure  hence. 
I  am  afraid  my  daughter  will  run  mad, 
So  much  she  doteth  on  her  Mortimer.  [Exit. 

MoRT.    Fie,  Cousin  Percy  !  how  you  cross  my  father. 

Hot.    I  cannot  choose ;  sometimes  he  angers  me 
With  telling  me  of  the  moldwarp  and  the  ant, 
Of  the  dreamer  Merlin  and  his  prophecies ; 
And  of  a  dragon  and  a  finless  fish, 
A  clip-wiug'd  griffin  and  a  moulten  raven, 
A  couching  lion  and  a  ramping  cat, 
And  such  a  deal  of  skimble-skamble  stuff 
As  puts  me  from  my  faith.     I  tell  you  what,  — 
He  held  me,  last  night,  at  least  nine  hours, 
In  reckoning  up  the  several  devils'  names 
That  were  his  lackeys  :  I  cried,  "Humph,"  and  "WeU,"  "Go 

to," 
But  mark'd  him  not  a  word.     0,  he  's  as  tedious 
As  a  tir'd  horse,  a  railing  wife ; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house  :  I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlic  in  a  windmill,  far. 
Than  feed  on  cates,  and  have  him  talk  to  me 
In  any  summer-house  in  Christendom. 

MoRT.    In  faith,  he  is  a  worthy  gentleman ; 
Exceedingly  well  read,  and  profited 
In  strange  concealments  ;  valiant  as  a  lion. 
And  wondrous  affable,  and  as  bountiful 
As  mines  of  India.     Shall  I  tell  you,  cousin? 
He  holds  your  temper  in  a  high  respect. 
And  curbs  himself  even  of  his  natural  scope 
When  you  do  cross  his  humor  :  faith,  he  does. 
I  warrant  you  that  man  is  not  alive 
Might  so  have  tempted  him  as  you  have  done, 
Without  the  taste  of  danger  and  reproof : 


THE   PURSUIT.  279 

But  do  not  use  it  oft,  let  me  entreat  you. 

WoR.    lu  faith,  my  lord,  you  are  too  wilful-blame, 
And  since  your  coming  hither  have  done  enough 
To  put  him  quite  besides  his  patience. 
You  must  needs  learn.  Lord,  to  amend  this  fault : 
Though  sometimes  it  shows  greatness,  courage,  blood 
(And  that 's  the  dearest  grace  it  renders  you). 
Yet  oftentimes  it  doth  present  harsh  rage, 
Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government, 
Pride,  haughtiness,  opinion,  and  disdain  : 
The  least  of  which,  haunting  a  nobleman, 
Loseth  men's  hearts,  and  leaves  behind  a  stain 
Upon  the  beauty  of  all  parts  besides, 
Beguiling  them  of  commendation. 

Hot.    Well,  I  am  school'd  :  good  manners  be  your  speed  ! 
Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take  our  leave. 


THE   PURSUIT. 

Scene,  handsome  saloon.  Arcfiwoy  in  c. ;  balustrade  crosses  stage  behind  c., 
with  view  of  a  garden  and  surrounding  country ;  set  doors  R.  and  l.  h.  ; 
small  table,  L.  H.,  on  it  books,  and  work,  and  writing  materials ;  sofa,  l.  ; 
two  arm-chairs,  R.  and  l.  C.  ;  table  on  R.  H. 

Present,  the  Countess.     Henri  is  heard  singing  without.    Enter  Henri, 

in  livery. 

COUNTESS.  Well,  spoiled  child,  will  you  never  be  rea- 
sonable ] 

Henri.    Scold  me  ;  you  scold  sweetly. 

CouN,  I  am  not  to  be  disarmed  by  cajolery.  Are  you  bent 
on  being  discovered  by  Leonie  or  the  servants  1  Will  nothing 
serve  but  going  singing  Ciraarosa  in  the  park  ;  and,  above  all, 
singing  him  in  tune  and  taste  1 

Hexri.    Unfortunately,  I  had  heard  you  sing  it. 

CouN.  Flattery  is  not  the  point ;  it  is  ungrateful,  not  only 
to  me,  who  love  you  as  a  sister,  but  to  your  poor  mother. 


280  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Henri.    Ah,  I  forgot  that !     What  shall  I  do  1 

CoUN.  Begin  by  answering  when  I  call  Charles,  and  by  not 
answering  when  anybody  else  says  Henri. 

Henri.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

CouN.  Next,  don't  go  into  ecstasies  with  my  niece's  draw- 
in(^s,  nor  answer  like  a  hypocrite  who  cannot  deny  himself  the 
pleasure  of  being  charming ;  henceforth  I  will  but  think  it ; 
and,  lastly,  don't  expose  yourself  by  going  to  Lyons  against 
my  orders,  as  you  did  to-day.  Unhappy  boy  !  do  you  forget 
that  your  life  is  in  danger  1 

Henri.    No  :  I  wish  I  could ;  but  I  am  told  it  too  often  for 

that. 

CouN.  The  new  prefect,  Montrichard,  is  coming.  He  is  a 
dangerous  man,  —  and  to  think  he  owes  his  nomination  to 
•Qie  !  —  who  serves  each  government  in  turn,  and  recommends 
himself  to  each  by  some  remarkable  action. 

Henri.  That  is  to  say,  by  shooting  two  or  three  poor  devils 
with  their  eyes  bandaged  and  their  backs  to  a  wall. 

CouN.  No,  he  is  not  cruel  by  nature ;  but  neither  is  he  a 
man  to  leave  a  chief  of  conspirators  undiscovered.  Your  de- 
scription will  be  everywhere ;  the  first  soldier  you  meet  will 
recognize  you ;  your  head  will  be  every  moment  in  danger. 

Henri.  You  don't  see  it  in  the  proper  light.  I  shall  hear 
them  recite  my  name  in  the  market,  I  shall  buy  my  condem- 
nation of  the  street-criers,  and  I  shall  chat  with  the  gens 
d amies  about  this  Henri  de  Flavigneid.  "Well,  friend,  is 
not  that  fellow  taken  yetT'  "No,  he  sticks  to  his  life,  it 
appears  ;  should  you  know  him  if  you  saw  him  ? "  "  Give 
me  his  description,  will  you  1 " 

Enter  Leonie,  attired  for  riding. 
Leonie.    I  am  ready,  aunt.     Shall  I  do  1 
CouN.    Your  cravat  not  quite  so  high,  dear.    Who  gave  yon 
that  fine  rose  %     Charles,  see  my  brother's  horse  ready. 

Henri.    Yes,  madam.  [Exit. 

Leo.    Monsieur  de  Grignon,  your  guest,  — he  is  down  there 
admiring  my  uncle's  horse. 

Enter  De  Geignok. 


THE   PURSUIT.  281 

Grig.  What  fire,  what  vigor  !  0  the  pleasure  of  being 
carried  ou  such  a  living  hurricane  !     Ah  !     (Bows.) 

Coux.  Good  morning,  monsieur.  You  are  in  ecstasies  with 
a  spirited  horse ;  I  wager  you  regi-et  not  having  ridden 
Bucephalus. 

Grig.    I  do,  madam;  it  is  so  beautiful,  so  —  oh  !  — 

Coux.  You  cannot  find  the  second  adjective.  You  will 
thank  me  for  interrupting  you ;  see  !  letters  and  journals  on 
the  table  for  you.     Adieu  ! 

Exeunt  Leonie  and  Co vs t ess,  followed  by  Henri. 

Grig.  It  is  my  fate  to  love  that  woman,  —  a  heroine,  who 
has  proved  her  own  courage  more  than  once,  and  looks  for  it 
in  a  man  ;  so,  to  please  her,  there  is  not  a  peril  to  which  I  don't 
expose  myself,  —  in  imagination  ;  and  when  I  think  of  her  I 
feel  a  hero,  and  I  am  a  hero,  —  in  imagination;  but  the  moment 
I  come  to  practise,  it  is  not  the  case.  This  comes  from  my 
parents.  I  take  after  my  mother,  who  was  courage  in  person ; 
I  resemble  my  father,  who  was  prudence  itself.  (Seats  himself 
at  table,  and  writes.)  She  shall  have  my  declaration,  —  hot, 
burning,  as  I  feel  it.  I  '11  place  it  there,  —  imder  the  mirror; 
she  will  see  it,  —  will  read  it.  Ah  !  at  last  I  have  done  a 
courageous  act  (going,  —  s^o/)s),  which  will  enable  me  to  be  a 
prudent  man  all  the  rest  of  my  life.      (Going.) 

Coux.  (icithout).    Louis!  Joseph! 

Enter  Countess,  supporting  Leonie  ;  De  Grignon  meets  them,  and  with 
zeal  assists  to  place  her  in  a  chair. 

Grig.    \\Tiat  is  it  ? 

CoDN.    An  accident,  —  thrown  from  her  pony  I 

Grig.    Not  hurt,  I  trust  1 

Leo.    No,  —  no  ! 

CouN.  No  ;  but  I  dread  the  shock,  —  the  alarm.  Ring,  my 
friend,  if  you  please. 

Grig.    Can  I  do  nothing  1 

CouN.  I  want  them  to  go  to  the  market  town  for  the 
surgeon. 

Grig.    But  I  can  do  that. 

CoDN.    How  good  of  you  ! 


282  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Grig.  {bows.  Aside).  And  then  I  shall  be  out  of  the  way 
when  she  reads  the  letter.     1  shall  soon  be  back.  [Exit. 

Leo.  Aunt !  if  you  did  but  know,  —  I  can't  believe  it  yet ; 
and  I  was  so  angry,  —  that  is,  so  ungrateful, — poor  young 
man,  and  I  owe  my  life  to  him ! 

CouN.    What  is  all  this  ] 

Leo.  An  adventure  so  astonishing.  Charles  —  no,  Henri ! 
—  no,  Charles,  poor  Charles  ! 

CouN.    You  know  all  ] 

Leo.    0  yes ! 

CouN.    0  Heaven ! 

Leo.  I  will  be  silent,  —  I  will  be  silent ;  I  swear  to  you  I 
will  aid  you  to  protect,  defend  him.     Can  I  do  less  now  1 

CouN.    You  leave  me  without  explanation. 

Leo.  True ;  yet  I  feel  as  if  all  the  world  ought  to  know. 
Well,  we  were  galloping  in  the  park  so  nicely,  when,  in  a 
moment,  my  uncle's  horse  took  fright,  and  so  did  my  pony 
after  him,  and  dashed  with  me  amongst  the  trees  ;  a  low 
branch  was  before  me,  —  the  pony  was  reckless,  —  I  should 
have  been  torn  off;  killed,  —  when  Charles,  who  had  inter- 
cepted us,  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  the  pony,  —  the 
path  was  narrow,  —  seized  him  by  the  rein,  and  received  me, 
as  I  slipped  fainting  from  my  saddle,  and  laid  me  gently  on 
the  grass. 

CouN.  Brave  fellow  !  It  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  not  hate 
him  again  after  this. 

Leo.  Would  you  believe  it,  aunt  1  1  was  in  a  passion  with 
him. 

CoDN.    For  saving  your  life  ] 

Leo.  No  ;  but  for  saving  me  in  such  a  familiar  way. 
Only  think  !  he  took  my  hands  to  warm  them,  and  revived 
me  with  his  smelling-bottle  ;  so  I  could  not  help  thinking, 
What  business  have  you  with  a  smelhng-bottle  ]  and  he  said, 
as  if  we  were  equals,  "  Poor  child,  poor  child  ! "  I  could  n't 
answer,  because  I  was  insensible,  you  know ;  but  I  was  very 
angry  in  my  heart ;  and  when,  on  opening  my  eyes,  I  found 
him  on  his  knees,  as  pale  as  myself,  taking  my  hand  with  his, 


THE   PURSUIT.  283 

and  saying,  "Sweet  young  lady,  how  are  you  now?"  I  waa 
so  enraged  I  gave  his  hand  such  a  cut  with  my  whip,  —  so  ! 
—  and  then  I  burst  out  crying,  —  I  don't  know  why,  I  am 
sure. 

COUN.  (a  little  uneasily) .      Go  on. 

Leo.  Imagine  my  surprise,  my  joy,  when  he  arose,  un- 
covered his  head  with  a  charming  grace,  and  said,  "  Let  your 
just  pride  "  (at  that  word  he  smiled)  "  be  appeased.  He  who 
has  dared  to  take  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  de  Villegoutier 
is  not  Charles  the  valet-de-chamhre,  —  it  is  Monsieur  Henri  de 
Flavigneul,  the  condemned  conspirator." 

CouN.    He  has  thrown  away  his  life  ! 

Leo.  Thrown  away  his  life  because  he  has  trusted  me  with 
his  secret  % 

CouN.    And  what  security  have  I  you  will  keep  it  ? 

Leo.    What!     Shall  I  betray  him'? 

CouN.  Betray  him  !  0  Leonie,  but  your  goodness  of  heart, 
your  very  fears,  will  betray  him. 

Leo.  Fear  nothing ;  I  shall  be  strong  where  he  is  in 
danger.  [Exit  Leonie. 

CouN.  She  loves  him, — and  why  should  she  not  love  him? 
She  is  young,  rich,  noble,  like  himself;  then,  Avhat  objection 
can  there  be  1  (Taking  up  a  letter.)  A  letter  to  me  !  from  Mon- 
sieur de  Grignon  !  (Languidly.)  I  suppose  I  must  read  it. 
What  do  I  read? 

Enter  De  Grignon  ;  he  stops  and  watches  with  anxiety. 

Yes,  yes ;  this  is  the  language  of  love,  the  accent  of  passion, 

the  music  of  the  heart  ! 

Grig.    I  don't  think  she  is  angry.      (Goes  out  quietly.) 
CouN.    He  loves  me.     He  demands  my  hand. 

Enter  Leonib. 

Leo.    Soldiers,  —  dragoons  ! 
CouN.    Soldiers? 

Leo.  And  r/etis  d'armes  in  the  court-yard.  They  are  come 
to  arrest  —  to  arrest  him  ! 

Coux.    They  shall  not  find  him.     Be  calm,  be  calm ! 


284  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Leo.    Calm  !     Ah,  you  can,  aunt ;  you  do  not  love  him. 
CouN.    I  do  not  love  him  ?     If  he  is  in  danger,  't  will  be 
seen  who  loves  him  most. 

Enter  Henri. 

Henri.  Well,  they  really  are  dragoons,  bona  fide  dragoons, 
in  search  of  me  too. 

CouN.    Their  officer  1 

Henri.    I  have  been  in  conversation  with  him. 

Leo.    How  did  you  dare  ? 

Henri.  I  am  so  nearly  interested  in  the  business  that  I 
could  not  restrain  my  curiosity. 

CouN.    But  what  did  he  say  ]  word  for  word  ! 

Henri.  Come  to  arrest  M.  Henri  de  Flavigneul.  That  was 
plain  speaking,  was  it  not  ? 

Leo.    Lost,  —  lost ! 

Henri.    Not  till  I  am  found,  —  found  ! 

CouN.    He  says  well ;  we  two  must  save  him, 

Henri.  No ;  we  three,  —  let  me  have  a  hand  in  it.  Let 
us  find  some  good  disguise,  an  original  one. 

CouN.  We  are  not  writing  a  romance,  but  defending  a 
valuable  life.  Let  me  first  know  who  are  our  enemies.  Who 
is  the  officer  of  the  dragoons  1 

Henri.  I  don't  know ;  but  he  is  accompanied  by  the  new 
prefect,  the  terrible  Montrichard. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  The  Baron  de  Montrichard  desires  to  know  whether 
Madam  the  Countess  will  do  him  the  honor  to  receive  him. 

Leo.    Oh  !  Oh  ! 

CouN.  Certainly,  with  pleasure.  (Exit  Servant.)  The  baron, 
and  nothing  decided  on  yet. 

Leo.    Fly,  Henri,  fly  ! 

CouN.    Stay  where  you  are. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.    The  Baron  de  Montrichard.     (Bows.) 
Enter  Montrichard.    Exit  Servant. 

CouN.    (Going  up  to  meet  him).   Ah,  baron,  how  happy  I  am 


THE  PURSUIT.  285 

to  see  you  !  You  are  come  to  thank  me  for  your  prefec- 
ture ;  it  was  not  necessary ;  still  you  do  well,  for,  indeed,  I 
caballed  and  intrigued,  and  did  many  wicked  things  for  you. 
But  success,  you  know,  justifies  anything,  and  here  you  are, 

—  you  come  to  stay  with  me.  Charles,  Charles,  relieve  the 
baron  of  his  hat,  —  I  insist  upon  it.  Charles,  fetch  some 
refreshments  for  the  baron.  [Exit  Henri. 

MoxT.  You  overwhelm  me,  madam.  I  shall  never  acquit 
myself  of  my  debt,  unless  you  are  devoted  to  the  good  cause 
as  in  former  times. 

CoUN.    I  am,  baron. 

Mont.    I  am  glad  of  it.     I  can  then  offer  you  something, 

—  an  opportunity  of  doing  his  Majesty  service. 

Coux.  Give  me  your  hand,  baron ;  you  speak  like  a  royal- 
ist, —  though  you  have  not  been  one  so  long  as  I  have,  you 
know. 

Mont.  Ahem  !  It  is  to  ai-rest  the  chief  of  a  Bonapartist 
conspiracy ;  and,  luckily,  it  is  a  man  who  is  known  to 
you. 

CouN.  (laughing).  To  me  !  I  acquainted  with  a  conspirator'? 
My  good  sir,  you  have  forgotten  the  history  of  France. 

Mont.    M.  Henri  de  Flavigneul. 

CouN.  Yes,  I  do  know  him.  I  have  seen  him  at  his 
mother's  house,  that  smooth-faced  boy ;  but  if  he  is  a  Bona- 
partist I  give  him  up. 

MoNT.    I  am  ready  to  take  him,  countess. 

CouN.    And  what  has  become  of  the  youth  1 

Mont.    He  is  hiding. 

CouN.    0,  he  is  hiding  !     You  should  seek  him,  then. 

Mont.    He  is  in  a  chateau. 

CouN.    Anywhere  near'? 

Mont.    Very  near,  indeed. 

CouN.    Where  are  you  going  to  surprise  him '? 

Mont.    I  require  your  aid. 

CouN.    With  all  my  heart ;  but  I  don't  see  — 

Mont.  Would  you  believe  it?  This  chateau  belongs  to  a 
lady  of  rank,  a  true  royalist,  and  my  benefactress. 


286  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

CouN.    Like  myself? 

Mont.    Like  yourself,  madam. 

CouN.    Ha,  ha  !     Are  you  insane  1    Do  you  think  I  harbor 
conspirators  1 

Mont.    Unfortunately,  I  am  sure  of  it. 

CouN.  And  it  is  for  this  you  have  gone  to  such  an  expen- 
diture of  dragoons  and  gens  cTarmes  ? 

Mont.    Yes,  madam  ;  and  it  is  for  this  I  cannot  leave  your 
house  until  I  take  with  me  the  enemy  of  the  king,  and  so 
prove  my  gratitude  to  his  faithful  subject,  yourself. 
Enter  Henri,  with  tray,  etc. 

CouN.  Then,  sir,  you  will  have  time  to  learn  how  an  of- 
fended woman  revenges  herself. 

Mont.    Revenges  herself ! 

CouN.  For  an  unreasonable  affront  put  on  a  known  royalist 
like  me.  Be  seated,  baron  ;  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you. 
{They  sit;  Henri  approaches.  To  Henri,  sternly.)  What  are  you 
doing  there  1  Finish  your  work,  and  then  be  gone  !  —  Eigh- 
teen years  ago  a  zealous  young  magistrate  was  sent  to  arrest 
three  Vendean  leaders  at  the  chateau  of  Kermadio. 

Mont.  Yes,  I  remember  it ;  for  that  magistrate  was  my- 
self. 

CouN.    You !     No  ;   this  gentleman  was  Procureur  of  the 

Republic. 

Mont.    Do  you  think  so  1 

CouN.    I  know  it. 

Mont.    It 's  possible. 

CouN.  It  is  certain,  as  certain  as  —  that  a  little  girl,  aged 
fourteen  — 

Mont.  Caused  those  Vendean  leaders  to  escape  under  my 
nose  with  an  address,  a  — 

CoUN.    Spare  my  modesty,  baron. 

Mont.     What  1      {Measures  her  with  his  eyes.) 

CouN.  The  innocent  little  girl,  that  made  a  fool  of  the 
ardent  youth,  has  been  a  woman  some  time.  Ah,  Sir  Baron, 
you  come  and  attack  me  in  my  own  house  !  My  poor 
prefect,   what   a   life   you   have   chosen  !    You  will  be  fast 


THE   PURSUIT.  287 

asleep,  —  get  up  ;  Flavigneul  has  been  seen  in  a  garret ;  you 
are  heart,  soul,  and  body  in  your  dinner  —  on  liorseback, 
Flavigneul  is  in  the  forest.  Beat  the  wood,  ransack  the  house, 
run  your  sword  through  the  linen  as  it  goes  to  the  wash  ;  but, 
above  all,  distrust  everything,  —  distrust  my  smile,  distrust 
my  tears  still  more,  —  when  I  am  joyful,  I  am  ill  at  ease  : 
only,  if  you  calculate  so,  I  shall  be  sure  to  be  forewarned  that 
you  are  forearmed,  and  deceive  you  by  double  calculation. 
Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Henri  (grins  at  hack.)     Ravishing  ! 

Coux.  What  are  you  doing  there,  with  your  arms  hanging, 
and  your  stupid,  giggling  face  1  Why  don't  you  serve  the 
baron  ]  —  There,  take  some  refreshments,  baron  ;  you  little 
know  how  much  you  will  need  them  for  your  task.  I  don't 
say  adieu ;  for  I  mean  to  keep  you  six  months,  —  in  fact, 
until  you  catch  Monsieur  de  Flavigneul  in  my  house. 

[  Waves  her  hand,  and  exit. 

MoxT.  What  a  demon  of  a  w'oman  !  She  has  dazzled  me 
with  doubt.      Monsieur  de  Flavigneul  is  not  here. 

Henri.    Will  the  baron  be  pleased  —     (Follows  him,  with  tray.) 

Mont.  By  and  by.  —  No ;  if  he  was,  she  would  not  venture 
on  all  this  insult  and  raillery. 

Henri.    Baron,  the  countess  ordered  me  — 

Mont.  Directly,  I  tell  you.  Stop  !  an  idea.  —  Yes  !  come 
here,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  You  are  not  such  a  fool  as 
you  seem. 

Henri.    No,  sir. 

Mont.    You  have  an  intelligent  look  at  bottom. 

Henri.    Yes,  sir. 

Mont.    Your  mistress  used  you  ill  just  now  1 

Henri  (sulkili/).     She  is  always  doing  it. 

Mont.  And  how  nmch  more  wages  does  she  give  you  for 
affronting  you  1 

Henri.    Not  a  sou. 

Mont.  Hl-used  and  ill-paid,  my  poor  fellow  !  My  lad, 
would  you  like  to  gain  twenty-five  louis-d'ors  ? 

Henri.    Twenty-five  louis  ^    I  can't  do  it.     (Puts  tray  m  table.) 


288  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mont.  Yes,  you  can,  —  thus  :  this  Flavigneul  must  be 
hiddeu  in  the  chateau  — 

Henri.    So  I  say,  sir. 

Mont.    Show  him  me,  you  shall  have  the  money. 

Henrl  Show  him  you,  —  twenty-five  louis  !  You  may 
look  on  it  as  done,   sir. 

Mont.  Good !  Now,  you  must  not  stay,  for  the  countess 
is  coming. 

Henri  (looking  uneasily,  as  for  her).  That  she  is.  (Going,  returns.) 
Sir,  if  I  could  get  out  of  the  countess's  service,  and  you  take 
me  into  yours,  —  for  her  eye  sees  everything,  —  then  we  could 
talk  without  suspicion. 

Mont.    Good  !     I  see  I  made  no  mistake  in  choosing  you. 

Henri.    No,  sir,  of  course  not,  —  twenty -five  louis  ! 

\Exit  with  tray. 

Mont.    So,  I  've  got  an  ally  in  the  camp. 

Enter  Leonie. 

Leo.    Pardon,  sir,  —  baron,  —  I  thought  my  aunt  was  here. 

Mont.  She  has  this  moment  left ;  but  I  shall  be  most  un- 
fortunate should  her  absence  make  you  treat  me  like  an 
enemy. 

Leo.    Me  treat  you  like  an  enemy,  sir ;  how  1 

Mont.  By  retiring ;  not  but  what  I  can  understand  your 
mistrust. 

Leo.    My  mistrust ! 

Mont.  Yes ;  you  thought  I  was  here  to  tear  from  you  some 
one  who  is  dear  to  you. 

Leo.  (He  wants  to  sound  me ;  but  I  must  be  very  cun- 
ning.)    Sir,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

Mont.  It  is  plain  enough,  too.  I  came  here  for  M.  de 
Flavigneul,  and  surrounded  your  house  with  armed  men,  — 
my  duty  my  only  excuse  ;  but  that  is  all  over  now. 

Leo.    How  is  that  ] 

Mont.    I  have  discovered  he  is  not  here. 

Leo.    Ah ! 

Mont.   And  I  am  going. 

Leo.    Dii'ectly  1 


THE   PURSUIT.  289 

MoxT.  Directly,  —  directly  1  Why,  you  make  me  almost 
suspect. 

Leo.    I  make  you  suspect,  sir  1 

Mont.  You  are  so  pleased  at  my  departui'e.  Perhaps  I  am 
mistaken,  and  M.  de  Flavigneul,  after  all  — 

Leo.  Me  pleased  at  your  departure  !  On  the  contrary,  baron, 
if  we  could  keep  you  here  a  long  while,  —  a.  very  long  while  — 

Mont.  Ah,  mademoiselle,  you  foil  into  the  other  extreme ; 
and  as  I  am  a  man  naturally  suspicious  —^ 

Leo.    I  don't  know  what  you  w^ant  me  to  say,  sir. 

Mont.  Calm  yourself,  young  lady ;  what  I  said  was  mere 
supposition.  In  point  of  fact,  I  know  he  is  not,  at  least  he 
is  no  longer,  in  the  chateau.  So,  merely  to  discharge  my 
conscience,   I  shall  just  scour  the  adjoining  woods. 

Leo.    I  think  vou  ought  to  do  that. 

Mont,  {aside).  He  is  not  in  the  woods. — Examine  the 
chimneys  and  hiding-places  in  the  house. 

Leo.    It  is  your  duty. 

Mont,  (aside).  He  is  not  under  the  wainscot. — Examine, 
and  see  if  he  is  not  under  any  disguise.  —  {Aside.)  She  trem- 
bles. —  And,  with  this  view,  examine  all  the  farm  servants,  all 
the  domestics.  —  {Aside.)  She  trembled.  — And  then  take  my 
leave  with  regret,  because  I  quit  you  and  madam  ;  but  still 
happy  at  not  having  succeeded  in  a  duty  so  very  painful. 

Leo.    a  duty  so  very  painful ! 

Mont.  Do  you  not  know  that  this  young  man  is  not  a 
civilian,  but  a  soldier,  and  that  it  is  a  court-martial  which 
must  dispose  of  him "? 

Leo.    a  court-martial  !     But  they  w'ill  kill  him  ! 

Mont.    No  ;  but  it  will  go  hard  w'ith  him. 

Leo.  They  will  kill  him  !  You  dare  not  teU  me  so  ;  but  I 
read  it  in  your  face.  Death,  —  death  for  him  !  0  sir,  mercy  ! 
He  is  but  five-and -twenty  !  He  has  a  mother,  —  she  will  die 
if  he  dies.  {Sinks  on  her  knees.)  Hc  has  friends,  who  live  only 
whilst  he  lives.  Mercy  !  he  is  not  culpable,  —  he  never  con- 
spired, he  told  me  so  himself.  0  sir,  do  not  condemn  him,  — 
do  not  condemn  him  ! 

13  I 


290  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mont,  (aside).  This  is  a  poor  triumph.  —  A  hard  duty, 
mademoiselle ;  I  regret  to  say,  I  must  act  upon  your  infor- 
mation.    He  is  here. 

Leo.    Here  !     I  did  not  say  so. 

Mont.  No ;  but  when  I  proposed  to  examine  the  domestics 
you  turned  pale. 

Leo.    No,  no,  not  at  that. 

Mont.    And  you  said,  "  Ho  told  me  so  himself." 

Leo.    Did  11 

Enter  Henri. 

Mont.  And  this  moment  you  cried,  "  Do  not  arrest  him." 
Leonie,  perceiving  Henri,  utters  a  piercing  cry,  and  buries  her  head  in  her 

hands. 

Henri  (advancing  rapidly).    I  am  on  his  track. 

Mont.    So  am  I. 

Henri.    He  is  in  the  house,  under  disguise. 

Mont.  Bravo  !  (Leonie, ^ar/«%  lijls  her  head.)  Poor  girl  !  I 
need  not  torture  her  any  more ;  besides,  what  is  to  be  done 
must  be  done  at  once.  I  leave  you.  Keep  your  eye  open, 
and  mind  he  don't  stir  from  the  place. 

Henri.  I  '11  keep  both  eyes  open,  sir.  He  sha'  n't  stir  from 
the  place  while  I  'm  in  it.     Ha,  ha,  ha !     What  a  scene  ! 

[Exit  MONTRICHARD. 

Leo,  0,  don't  laugh,  —  don't  laugh  !  Reproach  —  curse 
me  ! 

Henri.    You  ! 

Leo.    I  am  a  wretch,  without  faith  or  courage. 

Henri.    In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  has  happened  ? 

Leo.  You  trusted  the  secret  on  which  hangs  your  life 
to  me.  Well,  I  have  told  that  secret,  —  I  have  betrayed 
you! 

Henri.    To  whom,  Leonie  ? 

Leo.  To  your  judge,  —  here  this  instant.  Cowardly  wretch 
that  I  am  !  —  lost  my  presence  of  mind,  —  I  was  so  terrified 
on  your  account. 

Henri.    Is  it  possible  ? 

Leo.    I  destroy  you,  —  I  who  would  give  my  life  for  yours  ! 


THE   PURSUIT.  291 

Henri  {with joy).    What  do  I  hear? 

Leo.  But  I  will  not  survive  you.  0,  forgive  me  !  {Thwwt 
herself  on  her  knees.)      0,  pardou  me  ! 

Enter  Codntess. 

Henri.    Leonie,  —  in  Heaven's  name  —  [Tries  to  raise  her.) 

CouN.    What  do  I  see  %     What  are  you  doing  there '? 

Leo.  I  am  praying  for  pardon.  It  is  I  who  have  dis- 
covered —  destroyed  him  ] 

CouN.    Discovered  !  destroyed  !     No  ;  I  am  here. 

Leo.    Aunt,  aunt,  you  will  save  him  1 

Henri.  There  is  not  so  much  cause  for  fear;  Montrichard 
has  taken  me  for  his  accomplice. 

CouN.  Trust  not  to  that,  —  one  word,  one  gesture,  one 
thought,  would  open  his  eyes.  He  is  not  to  be  trifled  with  ; 
but  I  am  here.  [Exit  Henri. 

Enter  Montrichard. 

Mont.   Ladies!    (Salutes  them.) 

CouN.  Ah  !  is  it  you,  baron  ]  Come,  I  trust,  to  repose 
yourself  after  your  fatigues.  —  Leonie,  a  seat  for  the  prefect. 

Mont.    Do  not  give  yourself  that  trouble,  mademoiselle. 

CouN.  Well,  what  success]  How  many  cupboards  have 
you  stormed  1  how  many  very  young  ladies  have  you  meas- 
ured your  wit  against  % 

Mont.  Mademoiselle  de  Villegontier  told  me  nothing  but 
what  I  knew  before,  —  that  Monsieur  de  Flavigneul  is  in  this 
house,  in  disguise. 

CouN.  Ah  !  but  how  will  you  discover  which  is  he,  out  of 
twenty-five  or  thirty  persons  % 

Mont.  The  circle  narrows  itself;  and  as  soon  as  I  have  hia 
description,  —  I  expect  it  every  minute,  —  I  shall  be  able  to 
relieve  you  of  my  prisoner. 

CouN.  There  is  no  hurry,  should  your  suspicions  be  in- 
correct, as  they  often  are,  you  know.  Be  so  good  as  to  in- 
stall yourself  here  without  ceremony,  and  make  my  house 
yours. 

Mont.    Madam  !  — 


292  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

CoUN.  And  to  leave  you  the  more  free  in  your  researches, 
I  will  beg  your  permission  to  go  and  pass  some  days  in  the 
town,  whither  my  affairs  call  me. 

Leo.    You,  aunt? 

CouN.    Be  silent ! 

Mont,  (aside).   Ah,  I  must  watch  this  !     You  leave  us  1 

CouN.    Yes,  sir ;  unless  I  am  a  prisoner  in  my  own  house. 

Mont.  What  an  idea,  madam  !  It  is  mine  to  obey,  yours 
to  command.    (Countess  rings.) 

Enter  De  Geignon,  in  livei-y. 

Grig.    The  countess's  carriage  is  at  the  door. 

CouN.    Call  my  maid,  and  let  us  go. 

Mont.  Permit  me,  madam!  —  (To  De  Grignon.)  Stop, 
approach  !  I  examined  the  countess's  footman  just  now,  and 
methinks  it  was  not  you. 

CoUN.  (hurriedly).    I  have  two,  sir. 

Mont.    Is  this  gentleman  sure  he  always  wore  livery  1 

Grig,  (aside).    He  saw  me  this  morning  in  my  own  clothes. 

Mont.  I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  seeing  him  in  an- 
other costume. 

CouN.    0  yes ;  he  sometimes  serves  me  as  valet-de-cJiamhre. 

Mont.  Can  you  explain  to  me  certain  signs  of  confusion  he 
exhibits  ;  also  a  certain  nobility  of  countenance  1 

Grig.    I  betray  myself. 

CouN.    I  assure  you,  sir  — 

Leo.    Yes,  we  assure  you,  sir  — 

Mont.  0,  that 's  another  matter,  since  you  assure  me  this 
young  man  is  your  footman.  I  will  not  examine  him  ;  on  the 
contrary  I  arrest  him.  (He  walks  to  back  of  stage,  and  wanes  hand. 
Two  Dragoons  appear). 

CouN.  The  letter  !  —  take  it  from  your  pocket,  and  give 
it  me. 

Mont.    Well,  what  say  you  of  my  idea  1 

CouN.  I  say  !  I  say,  sir,  it  is  pushing  raillery  too  far,  and 
that  you  shall  not  deprive  me  of  a  valuable  servant. 

Mont,    Why  not  % 


THE   PURSUIT.  293 

Coux.  Because  —  {Aside  to  De  Grignon.)  The  letter,  or  you 
are  lost  !  (Gkignon  takes  out  letter,  and  is  about  to  hand  it  to  Coun- 
tess.) —  because  the  man  belongs  to  me. 

Mont.  That  paper,  —  I  command  you  to  give  me  that 
paper. 

CouN.    I  forbid  you. 

Mont.    Resistance  will  be  useless,  —  the  paper  ! 

Grig.    There,  sir  ! 

CoUN.  (hands  to  her  face).     Lost  !   lost  ! 

MoxT.  (reads).  "  To  Monsieur  Henri  de  Flavigneul :  My 
son" —  (Re  stops,  returns  letter  to  De  Grignon.)  Monsieur  Henri 
de  Flavigneul,  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the  king  and  the 
law. 

Leo.  (joyously).    Ah ! 

CoUN.  (passes  by  her).     Cry,  foolish  girl !    (Leonie  sobs.) 

MoxT.    Dragoons,  take  your  prisoner. 

Exeunt  De  Grignon,  and  two  Dragoons, 
CouN.   Baron,  I  implore  you  !    (Weeps.) 
Mont.    Madam,  I  can  listen  to  nothing  but  my  duty..  For- 
give  my   importunity,  —  the   marechal   must    be    informed  ; 
where  shall  1  find  writing  materials'? 

CouN.  In  that  room.  My  niece  (Leonie  crosses  at  back.)  will 
furnish  you  with  them. 

Enter  Henri. 

MoNT.  (meeting  him).  You  told  the  truth  ;  he  was  here  dis- 
guised ;  but  I  have  got  my  hand  upon  him.  (Lays  his  hands  on 
Henri.) 

Henri.    Well,  sir  !  — 

Mont.  Silence  ;  here  are  your  twenty-five  louis.  (Slips  purse 
into  hand,  and  exit,  followed  by  Leonie,  u-ho  hangs  back.) 

Leo.    You  are  saved,  —  thank  my  aunt.     Adieu  ! 

[Exit. 

Henri.   Saved,  —  saved  by  you  ! 

CouN.  Not  yet ;  I  have  diverted  the  baron's  susjiicions, 
but  I  still  dread  — 

Henri.  And  I  dread  nothing,  thanks  to  her  whose  wit, 
whose  address  —     I  have  no  words  to  say  all  I  feel.     You, 


294  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

who  can  do  anything,  who  know  everything,  —  angel,  fairy, 
enchantress,  —  teach  me  the  way  to  pay  you  all  I  owe  you  — 

CouN.  {gently).    You  owe  me  nothing,  Henri. 

Henri.  To  pay  you  for  all  you  have  done  and  suffered,  — 
tell  me  ! 

Enter  Mo-sTRiCB.k.B.v>,  followed  by  Leonie. 

Mont.  Thanks  to  your  niece,  my  despatch  is  prepared  in 
form. 

CouN.    If  I  could  but  get  him  away  now,  —  hem  ! 

Mont,  (approaching).    Forgive  me  my  victory,  madam. 

CouN.  Neither  your  victory,  nor  the  low  artifice,  the  treach- 
ery, by  which  alone  you  gained  it. 

Mont.    Madam  ! 

CouN.  I  repeat  it,  sir,  —  treachery  !  You  must  have  cor- 
rupted, bribed  some  of  my  people  !  Don't  deny  it !  Ah  !  your 
secret  looks  of  intelligence  with  this  Charles,  your  sly  inter- 
views,—  it  is  he.  (Turns  suddejily  on  Charles.)  You  miserable 
wretch  !  't  is  you  have  betrayed  me  ! 

Henri  (frightened).    I,  madam] 

CouN.  You  !  I  see  it  in  your  fear  and  your  accomplice's 
confusion.  (Lookii^g  from  one  to  the  other.)  Out  of  my  house  !  out 
of  my  sight  this  moment  !  (Flies  at  him;  Henri  appears  petrified. 
Aside).     Foolish  boy,  don't  you  seel  —  Begone  ! 

JMont.    But,  madam  — 

CouN.  Your  friend  shall  not  be  my  servant  one  moment 
longer.     ( Turns  her  back  on  him  with  contempt. ) 

Mont.    In  that  case,  madam,  he  is  mine. 

CouN.    He  shall  not  serve  you  either,  sir. 

Mont.  Why  not,  madam  1  Come,  my  lad,  on  horseback, 
and  go  full  gallop  for  me  to  St.  Andeol. 

Leo.  (aside).     Heavens  ! 

Mont.  This  letter  to  the  marechal  commanding  the  di- 
vision — 

Henri  (going,  stops).    But,  prefect,  I  have  no  horse. 

Mont.    Take  mine. 

Henri.    But,  prefect,  the  soldiers  won't  let  me  pass. 


THE   PURSUIT.  295 

Mont.    I  will  give  the  order.     {Goes  up  the  stage  and  gives  orders.) 

Henri  (to  Countess).  You  have  saved  my  life,  —  dispose  of 
that  life  ! 

Mont.    Come,  away  with  you  ! 

Henri.    In  one  hour,  sir,  I  will  be  at  St.  Andeol. 

Mont.  Good  !  (He  goes  up  the  stage  with  Henri,  giving  him  his  last 
orders.    Exit  Henri.     Calling  off.)    Bring  in  the  prisoner  ! 

CouN,  (aside).  Too  soon  !  —  we  shall  be  lost.  I  begin  to 
doubt  De  Griynon's  firmness.     0  torture  !  —  time  !  time  ! 

Mont.  Ladies,  the  few  words  I  must  say  to  this  unfortu- 
nate young  man  are  for  his  ear  alone.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Enter  De  Grignon,  Gens  d'Armes. 

Mont.    After  all,  he  can  save  his  life  if  he  chooses  ! 

Grig.  I  wish  he  would  not  look  at  me  in  that  absurd 
way.  —  You  wish  to  speak  with  me,  baron. 

Mont.    Yes,  sir,  once  more,  before  the  fatal  moment. 

Grig.    What  moment  1 

Mont.  You  have  confessed  you  are  Monsieur  Henri  de 
Flavigneul.  All  I  can  now  do  for  you  is  to  insure  you  the 
respect,  the  privileges,  due  to  so  brave  a  soldier.  I  have  to 
add,  there  is  a  means  of  safety,  but  I  feel  you  will  not  adopt  it. 

Grig.  Why  not  ?  Why  not  ]  You  '11  see  whether  I  won't, 
—  without  any  noise  !  ^ 

Mont.  Pardon  is  offered  to  those  who  will  make  revelations 
of  importance ;  if  you  have  any  such  to  make  me  — 

Grig.    To  be  sure  I  have,  —  of  the  utmost  importance  ! 

Enter  Countess. 

CouN.    My  fears  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Mont.  Be  composed,  Monsieur  de  Flavigneul  can  save  him- 
self by  a  word,  and  he  is  about  to  reveal  — 

CouN.    What  1     What  can  you  have  to  reveal,  sir  1 

Grig.  Nothing  !  (Aside.)  When  she  is  by,  I  am  afraid  to 
be  afraid. 

MoNT.    But  this  minute  you  were  about  to  reveal  — 

Grig.    That  I  have  nothing  to  reveal. 

CouN.    Bravo  ! 


296  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Mont.  But  tell  him,  madam,  not  to  throw  away  his  life 
thus. 

CouN.    Yes,  baron,  leave  me  a  few  minutes  alone  with  him. 

Mont.  Yes,  he  may  listen  to  the  voice  of  a  friend ;  but  I 
can  give  you  only  until  the  president  of  the  provost's  court 
an-ives,  and  we  expect  every  moment  — 

CoUN.  (to  Mont.).    What  conies  h&  here  for  ] 

Mont.    I  would  rather  not  tell  you.  [Exit. 

CouN.  Poor  fellow,  it  has  made  me  tremble  as  if  he  really 
—    Ah,  thank  you,  my  friend,  —  thank  you  ! 

Grig,  (aside).  She  never  looked  so  kindly.  (Aloud.)  You  are 
content  with  me  ] 

CouN.  Yes,  and  I  only  beg  you  to  be  firm  a  few  minutes 
more. 

Grig.  Firm  1  I  am,  for  you  are  here  ;  but  you  came  just 
in  time.    I  am  not  a  hero.    I  am  —  I  am  —  rather  a  coward  ! 

CouN.  (handkerchief  to  her  eyes).  My  brave  fellow, —  for  you  are 
brave,  —  I  know  you  better  than  you  do  ;  your  imagination 
gives  way  to  fear,  but  not  your  heart.  Your  trial  is  ended. 
(Presses  his  hand.)  It  is  but  justice!  Henri  must  now  protect 
himself     He  must  be  near  the  frontier. 

Enter  Montrichakd. 

Mont.    The  president  is  arrived. 

Grig.  Well,  I  am  at  your  service  ;  your  council  of  war, 
your  provost's  court,  your  file  of  soldiers,  — 

CouN.    De  Grignon ! 

Grig.  Ten  balls  in  the  breast !  I  don't  care,  —  now  T 
have  begun,  I  am  my  mother's  son.  Come,  sir.  (Going. 
MoNTRiCHARD  moves  toinards  the  door.) 

CouN.  Be  calm,  De  Grignon.  —  Baron,  who  is  the  president 
of  this  court  ] 

Mont.    The  Count  de  Grignon. 

Grig.    Ah  !  ahem  ! 

CouN.  Then,  instead  of  conducting  Henri  de  Flavigneul  to 
an  ignominious  death,  you  will  conduct  Gustavus  de  Grignon 
to  his  uncle. 

Grig.    My  uncle,  my  good  uncle,  —  ah  ! 


THE   PURSUIT.  297 

MoxT.  (l.,  superciliousJi/).  Ah,  my  good  madam,  and  you,  sir, 
that  was  pretty  well  acted ;  but  I  am  uot  so  easily  deceived, 
as  you  may  have  observed. 

CouN.  When  you  get  to  the  president  you  will  hear  the 
voice  of  nature,  which  is  less  easily  deceived. 

Mont.  No  !  your  confusion  this  morning  when  I  arrested 
this  gentleman  — 

Coux.   Was  it  so  well  put  on  as  all  that  1 

Mont.    But  the  letter  I  took  from  his  pocket  — 

CouN.    Where  I  had  just  put  it  for  you. 

Mont.    0  no  !  no  !     Your  tears  of  gi-ief  — 

CouN.  My  poor  baron  !  —  Ha,  ha  !  if  you  go  by  such  signs 
as  that,  we  shall  never  understand  one  another. 

Mont.  What  1  Can  you  cry  at  will  1  With  triumph  in 
your  heart,  can  you  shed  — 

CouN.    Ton-ents  !     Why  not  1 

Grig,  {aside  with  tender  admiration).     Who   would   not   love  SUch 

a  woman  1 

Mont,  {after  meditating).  Who,  then,  is  the  man  1  for  I  '11 
swear  he  was  here. 

CouN.    I  leave  you  to  guess. 

Mont.  A  light  breaks  in  on  me,  —  suppose  it  was  the 
other  ! 

CouN.  What !  he  you  furnished  with  a  safe  conduct,  —  he 
you  tampered  with,  —  he  for  whom  you  implored  my  clem- 
ency, as  I  did  yours  for  the  president's  nephew  1  Absurd ! 
But  I  confess  that  looks  more  like  my  work. 

Mont.    It  is  he  !  but  he  is  not  safe.     I  will  hunt  him. 

CouN.    Useless  !  he  is  too  well  mounted. 

Mont.    Ah ! 

CoDN,    On  the  prefect's  own  horse.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Grig.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

CouN.  His  generous  friend  omitted  nothing,  not  even 
pocket-money,  —  twentj^-five  louis,  to  wit,  —  which  he  bade 
me  return  you ;  for  to  pay  a  man  to  take  you  in  seems  to  us 
an  excess  of  good-nature,  though  you  don't  think  so.  Ha, 
ha! 

13* 


298  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES. 

GoDOLPHUS  Gout,  an  invalid ;  Hiram  Orcutt,  a  Yankee;  What's-his- 
NAME  Thingamy,  a  man  ofmemonj ;  Byron  Bobolink,  a  budding  poet; 
Mike  McShane,  an  Emerald-Isle  man ;  Stammering  Steve,  a  pro- 
fessor of  elocution;  Robert,  Gout's  nephew ;  Jenny,  Gout's  servant. 

Scene,  room  in  Gout's  house.     Table,   c,  with  candles  burning.     Easy- 
chair,  K.  of  table.     Entrances,  r.  and  u. 

Enter  Robert  and  Jenny,  meeting. 

Robert.  Good  morning,  Jenny.  How  is  that  lamb,  my 
uncle,  after  his  outbreak  last  night  ] 

Jenny.  0,  dear  Mr.  Robert !  he  's  worse  than  ever.  Such 
a  squally  night  as  we  have  had  !  What  could  you  have  done 
to  have  created  such  a  storm  I 

Robert.  I  merely  told  him  the  truth.  The  old  tyrant, 
not  content  with  bothering  me  every  night  by  making  me 
read  aloud  the  whole  play  of  Hamlet,  undertook  to  tell  me 
how  to  read  it.     Especially  the  soliloquy,  — 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question ; 
Whether  't  is  better  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them." 

He  insists  upon  it  that  Shakespeare  made  a  mistake ;  that  it 
should  read,  "  take  oars  against  a  sea  of  trouble " ;  and  all 
because  he  happened  to  go  a  voj^age,  and  thinks  himself  a 
great  sailor.  I  would  n't  humor  his  fancy,  and  so  we  parted. 
I  rather  think  he  '11  find  himself  in  a  sea  of  trouble  without 
either  arms  or  oars  ! 

Jenny.  He  's  in  a  terrible  passion,  sir,  and  vows  he  will 
never  see  you  again ;  and  what  's  worse,  look  here,  sir 
(brings  paper  from  table) ;  see  what  he  has  inserted  in  the  paper 
this  morning,  —  sent  me  off  with  the  advertisement  the 
moment  you  left. 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  299 

Robert  (reading).  "  Wanted,  for  an  hour  or  two  each  day,  a 
reader.  One  who  understands  the  ai-t,  and  is  willing  to  hu- 
mor an  invalid,  can  apply  at  No.  4  Frankfort  Square,  imme- 
diately." Good  gi'acious  !  why,  we  shall  have  all  the  unem- 
ployed in  the  city  here ;  for  there  is  no  one,  however  poorly 
he  may  value  his  talents  for  any  other  business,  but  thinks 
he  is  a  good  reader. 

Jenny.  No  doubt,  sir,  the  house  will  be  overrun  ;  but  he 
says  he  will  have  that  soliloquy  read  to  suit  him  if  he  has  to 
try  every  elocutionist  in  the  city. 

RoBEET.    Jenny,  I  have  an  idea  ! 

Jenny.   No,  have  you  though  %    Is  it  an  original  one  1 

Robert.  Not  quite  ;  but  it  will  do.  You  shall  pass  these 
applicants  through  my  hands  befoi-e  they  see  my  uncle.  I 
think  we  can  manage  to  cure  him  of  his  reading  mania. 

Gout  (widumt).    Jenny,  Jenny  ! 

Jenny.  Coming,  sir,  coming !  Where  shall  I  take  them 
to? 

Robert.  Into  the  little  back-parlor.  I  will  be  there  to 
receive  them. 

Gout  {outside).    Jenny,  Jenny,  you  jade  ! 

Jenny.  Coming,  sir !  0,  he  's  in  a  terrible  passion  !  All 
right,  Mr.  Robert.  [Exit. 

Robert.  By  the  sound  of  the  old  tiger's  voice,  I  should 
say  he  ts  in  a  passion.  Let  him  rave  !  he  '11  find  it 's  not  so 
easy  to  get  over  his  sea  of  troubles  with  oars.  [Exit. 

Gout  (outside).  Why  don't  you  come  quicker  when  I  call  1 
Handspikes  and  grappling-irons  !  (Enter  Gout  and  Jenny.  Gout 
leans  on  Jenny's  arm  ;  has  his  left  foot  well  bundled  up  ;  carries  a  cane  in 
rigid  hand,  and  appears  to  he  in  much  pain  and  a  raging  temper.)  0,  that 
foot !  Easy,  you  little  jade  ;  do  j'ou  want  to  murder  me  ?  0, 
dear,  dear  !  (Jenny  assists  him  down,  seats  him  in  a  chair,  r.  of  table, 
then  brings  a  cricket,  and  raises  his  foot ;  he  groaning  all  the  time.)    Avast 

there,  you  little   powder-monkey  !   Oh,  oh !   What  are   you 
about ]  ^ 

Jenny.    I  am  sure,  sir,  I  put  it  down  as  easy  as  possible. 

Gout.   Put  it  down  easy,  but  why  do  you  take  it  up  so 


300  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 

clumsily  1  There,  that  will  do.  Any  answers  to  that  adver- 
tisement yet  ] 

Jenny.    Not  yet,  sir. 

Gout.  Ah,  Jenny  !  that  will  bring  the  right  man.  That 
saucy  scamp  thought  I  was  dependent  upon  him,  did  he  1 

Jenny,    I  am  sure,  sir,  Mr.  Robert  is  very  kind. 

Gout.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  chatterbox !  You  and  he 
pull  in  the  same  boat.  You  both  want  to  kill  me,  —  0,  that 
foot !  —  but  I  won't  be  dependent  on  either  of  you.  0,  do 
fix  that  cricket  a  little  better  !     {Bdl  rings.)     Who  's  that  ] 

Jenny.    It  must  be  one  of  your  new  readers. 

Gout.    Well,  why  don't  you  go  and  see  1   (Exit  Jenny.    Gout 

takes  a  pair  of  spectacles,  and  looks  at  watch.)  That  advertisement 
must  have  appeared  in  the  five  o'clock  edition ;  it 's  now 
seven  :  a  quick  answer,  but  all  the  better.  I  am  impatient 
to  know  how  other  men  will  like  my  reading  of  the  great  so- 
liloquy. I  'm  sure  I  'm  right.  What  good  would  arms  do 
against  a  sea  1  You  must  have  oars  to  make  headway.  Evi- 
dently a  mistake  of  those  confounded  printers  !  The  great 
Shakespeare  never  could  have  made  such  a  blunder.  (Enter 
Jenny.)    Well,  Jenny ! 

Jenny  (laughing).  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  such  a  sight !  there 's  the 
funniest  man  down  stairs,  such  a  guy  !  and  he  says  he 's  a 
bobolink. 

Gout.    A  bobolink  !    What,  a  bird  1 

Jenny.  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  did  n't  see  any  feathers,  but 
something  ails  him. 

Gout.    Something  ails  him  1     What "? 

Jenny.  I  don't  know,  sir ;  but  he  sighs  so  dreadfully,  it 's 
enough  to  break  your  heart.     Perhaps  he  has  had  his  broken. 

Gout.  Well,  well,  stop  your  chattering,  and  show  him  up. 
(Exit  Jenny.)  It  must  be  an  applicant;  now  we  shall  see,  Mr. 
Robert,  who  's  to  be  master  here.  (Enter  Jenny,  ushering  in  Btbon 
Bobolink,  who  steps  to  centre  of  stage,  faces  the  audience,  folds  his  hands 
on  his  breast,  and  gives  three  monstrous  sighs,  with  his  eyes  rolled  up  towards 
the  ceiling.     Jenny  steps  behind  Gout's  chair.) 

Gout.    Halloo  !     Here 's  a  customer.     How  do  you  do,  sir  1 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  301 

Bteon  {sloivly  turning  his  head,  looks  at  Mr.  Godt,  then  resumes  his 
former  pos  ition ) . 

Passing  well !  0,  passing  well ! 

Better  than  my  tongue  can  tell.    (Sighs.) 

Gout.    Why  !  what  ails  the  man  1 

Jexxy.  Law,  sir,  he 's  in  love  !  them 's  the  symptoms,  — 
sighs  and  poetry. 

Gout.    Be  still,  you  baggage  !  —  Well,  sir,  your  business  1 

ByROX  {with  same  movements  as  before). 

To  bore  to  hidden  springs  where  fancy  lies. 

And  tap  for  richer  thoughts  the  starlit  skies.    (Sighs.) 

JexxT.    Lies,  skies,  sic/hs.    (Imitating.) 

Gout.  Wells,  bore,  tap.  Why,  that  chap  's  struck  ile. 
He  's  got  it  on  the  brain.  Look  here,  sir  :  what  do  you 
want  ? 

ByrOX  (as  before). 

The  night  was  dark,  0,  inky  dark, 
And  lighted  was  the  taper. 
As  by  its  fitful,  gleaming  spark, 
I  sought  to  read  the  paper. 
When,  lo!  before  my  startled  eyes, 
Your  want  stood  staring  there. 
"  Ha,  ha  ! "  I  cried,  "  here  is  a  prize ; 
I  '11  hie  to  Frankfort  Square."    (Sighs.) 

Jenny.    0  ray  !  what  a  guy  !    (Laughs.) 
Gout.    Be   still,    you   baggage  !  —  Well,  sir,  what  —  what 
can  you  dol  —  O,  that  foot  !  —  Can  you  read  ? 

ByUON  (as  before). 

Read?    Ay,  the  stars,  the  moon,  the  skies, 
Nature  herself,  and  all  within  her  lies.    (Sighs.) 

Gout.  0,  confound  your  stars !  Can  you  read  Shake- 
speare 1 


302  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Byron  {as  before). 

'T  was  at  my  mother's  knee  I  learned 

All  that  his  mighty  mind  discerned.      (Sighs.) 

Gout.  Well,  you  must  have  been  stage-struck  at  an  early 
period  of  existence.  But  see  here,  Mr.  Bobolink,  I  'm  afraid 
you  soar  a  little  too  high  for  me.  Can  you  give  me  a  speci- 
men of  your  reading  1  Take  Hamlet's  soliloquy  :  "  To  be,  or 
not  to  be."  Jenny,  give  him  the  book  !  (Jenny  takes  hook  from 
table,  opens  it,  and  presents  it  to  Bobolink.  He  turns  his  head,  looks  at  her, 
and  then  at  the  book ;  then  resumes  his  former  position.  Jenny  returns  to  her 
place  behind  chair.) 

Byron  {as  before). 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  —  that  is  the  question, 
Said  Hamlet  in  a  fit  of  indigestion. 
Whether  't  is  better  in  the  mind  to  suffer  V  — 
Like  Plato,  Socrates,  or  — 

Jenny.  Some  old  buffer.  (Byron  turns  and  looks  at  W,  then  re- 
sumes his  former  position.     Gout  shakes  his  cane  at  Jenny.) 

Byron. 

"  The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortupe," 

Continued  he,  himself  to  importune, 
"  Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  trouble." 

Gout.  Hold  on  !  it 's  time  I  take  arms,  a»d  tell  ynu  that 
it 's  "  oars  against  a  sea  of  trouble." 

Byron  {turns  and  looks  at  Gout). 

Cease,  rude  despoiler  of  my  fancy's  soar, 
Cease,  prater,  cease,  give  o'er,  give  o'er  ! 

Gout.    Well,  that 's  what  I  want  you  to  do  :  give  oar.  or 
leave. 
BYROHir. 

I  am  thy  peer,  I  tower  amid  the  many  : 
Give  o'er  thy  scoffing,  call  upon  thy  — 

Gout  (bawling).   Jenny !    (Jenny  comes  doum.)   Just   take  that 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  303 

bobolink,  do  him  up  in  a  parcel,  mark  him  "  This  side  up, 
with  care,"  and  send  him  over  to  Dr.  Walker  at  South  Boston. 
Byron  (as  Jennt  appears). 

Away,  and  touch  me  not !    I  can, 

And  do,  and  dare,  and  will,  say  I  'm  a  man. 

[Exit. 
Jexnt.    That  bobolink  should  have  his  wings  clipped. 

[Exit. 

Gout.  Well,  if  some  lunatic  asylum  has  n't  lost  its  chief 
attraction,  I  will  lose  my  guess.  —  0,  my  foot  !  that  fellow  's 
got  me  into  a  perspiration.  {Enter  Jenny.)  Well,  Jenny,  w4io 
nowl 

Jenny.  Another  customer  ;  and  such  a  genius  !  He 's  had 
his  nose  in  every  room  in  the  house  coming  up  stairs.  Here 
he  is.     (Crosses  and  exits,  as  Hiram  Orcutt  enters.) 

Hiram.  Heow  do  you  do,  Mr.  1  Hope  you  're  pretty  well ! 
Fine  day  :  what 's  the  news  ]  Want  a  reader,  don't  you  1 
'  Spect  I  'm  the  man  for  your  money.  Can  do  that  business 
to  a  T.  Got  a  fine  edication  ;  three  winters'  schooling ;  tuck- 
ered eout  three  schoolmarms,  and  gin  the  committee  the 
shaking  palsy,  asking  so  many  questions  they  could  n't 
answer.  Why,  squire,  I  'm  the  most  original  genius  you  ever 
saw  ;  great  on  inventing  anything,  from  a  double-back  action 
toothpick  to  a  smokolotive  ingine. 

Gout.    Well,  had  n't  you  better  take  a  little  something  1 

Hiram.    Take  something  1    What] 

Gout.    A  little  breath. 

Hiram.  Halloo,  squire  !  you  're  a  joker  :  that 's  pooty  good. 
You  's  as  smart  and  greasy  as  Pete. 

Gout.    Pete  who  ] 

Hiram.  Petroleum.  How 's  that  ]  Guess  that  account 's 
settled.  Never  keep  a  long  reckoning.  Terms,  cash  on 
delivery.  { Takes  up  watch  from  table  )  That 's  a  darned  nice  watch. 
What  did  you  give  for  it] 

Gout  {savagehi).    Put  down  that  watch,  will  yoii  ] 

Hiram.    Sartin,  squire  ;  down  she  goes.    (Takes  up  spectacles.) 


304  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Gold-bowed  specs,  I  swow  !    {Puts  them  on.)   Why,  how   green 
you  look  !     {Stumbles  over  Gout's  lame  foot). 

Gout.    0,  murder !  You  confounded,  ugly,  awkward  cuss  ! 
Do  you  want  to  kill  me  1    Oh,  oh  ! 

Hiram.    Well,  look  hei-e,  squire,  don't  cuss  and  swear  like 
that ;  you  hurt  my  feelings.     What  ails  your  foot  1  burnt  it  1 

Gout  {savagely).    No  ! 

Hiram.    Cut  it  1 

Gout.    No  ! 

Hiram.    Been  bit  1 

Gout.    No  ! 

Hiram.  Well,  look  here,  old  gent !  you  're  about  as  short  as 
Aunt  Nabby's  pie-crust.     What  ails  it  1 

Gout.    None  of  your  business  ! 

Hiram.  Well,  now,  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  that  foot.  I  'm  great  on  doctoring  ;  invented  med- 
icines myself  Hearn  tell  of  Orcutt's  Oderifrous  Muskeeter 
Toi^mentor,  ain't  yer  1  Yer  spread  it  on  yer  face,  the  skeeters 
are  attracted  by  the  perfume,  and  light  on  it,  and  there  they 
stick  until  the  powerful  medicine  draws  out  their  stings,  and 
leaves  'em  as  harmless  as  canary-birds.  Never  knew  it  to 
fail  till  a  female  woman  tried  it;  and  she  got  her  face  stuck 
so  full  of  stings,  that  folks  thought  she  was  raising  whiskers, 
and  that  kind  a  hurt  it  with  the  female  women  sex.  But 
I  'd  like  to  know  what 's  the  matter  with  that  foot. 

Gout.    Well,  you  can't.     What 's  your  business  with  me  1 

Hiram.    Want  to  read. 

Gout.   What  can  you  read  1 

Hiram.  Anything,  from  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  to  "  Swee- 
ney Todd,  the  Ruffian  Barber " ;  and  the  more  blood  and 
thunder  the  better. 

Gout.    Can  you  read  Shakespeare  1 

Hiram.    Like  a  book  with  a  red  cover. 

Gout.  Let  me  hear  a  little  ;  Hamlet's  soliloquy,  for  in- 
stance. 

Hiram.  Yes,  sir  ;  but  you  see  I  've  got  an  original  concep- 
tion of  that  are  speech. 


A    SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  305 

Gout.    Original'?    Well,  let 's  have  it. 
Hiram.    S'pose  you  don't  mind  my  letting  out  a  little,  do 
you  1    You  see  mine  's  the  sensational  style. 
Gout.    Well,  well,  let 's  hear. 

Hiram  takes  off  his  coat,  folds  it  up ;  tlien  his  vest,  and  is  about  to  take 

off  his  cravat. 

Gout.    Halloo  !    What  are  you  doing ! 

HiRAJi.    Getting  ready. 

Gout.    Well,  I  should  say  you  are  getting  ready  for  bed. 

HiRAii.    0  no  !    I  'm  getting  woke  up. 

To  be  or  not  to  be,  Jehu  Christofer !  that 's  the  question 

Before  the  meetiu-house,  whether  't  is  better 

To  git  the  headache,  heartache,  stomach-ache, 

A  fretting  and  a  stewing  arter  pesky  fortunes  ; 

Or  to  take  swords  and  pitchforks,  guns  and  bagnets, 

Agin  the  horsepond  of  muddy  troubles. 

Gout.    Hold  on  !  that 's  quite  enough. 

HlRA3I  {resuming  his  vest  and  coat).     Then  I  'm  engaged,  am  I '? 

Gout.    No,  sir  I    Your  oi'iginality  is  too  much  for  me. 
Hiram.    Won't  do,  hey  1 
Gout.    No,  sir  ;  it  will  not  do. 

Hiram.    Well  now,  look  here,  squire  ;  I  can  cure  that  foot. 
What  ails  it  1 

Gout.    None  of  your  business.     Clear  out,  quick  ! 

Hiram.    What  a  pesky  tarnal  old  spitfire  you  are,  anyhow ! 

Gout.   Will  you  leave  the  room  1 

Hiram.    Of  course  I  will ;  but  I  say,  squi — 

Gout.  Well] 

Hiram.    You  ought  to  tell  me  one  thing. 

Gout.    What 's  that  1 

Hiram.    What 's  the  matter  with  your  foot. 

Gout  {seizing  his  cane,  throws  it  at  him).    Clear  out  !     {Exit  HiRAM.) 

0,  dear,  dear  1  it 's  getting  worse  and  worse.  The  idea  of 
that  chap's  trying  to  better  Shakespeare  in  that  way  !  {Enter 
Jenny.)    Well,  what  now] 

Jenny.    I  rather  think  it 's  another  reader, 

T 


306  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Gout.  Send  him  iu.  (Exit  Jet^-sy.)  Another  reader  !  Well, 
'f  he  's  no  better  than  his  predecessors,  his  stay  will  be  short. 
{Ejiter  Jenny,  ushering  in  What's-his-namb  Thingamy.  Jenny  takes 
^sr place  behind  Gout's  chair.) 

Gout.    Well,  sir,  your  business  1 

W.  T.  I  called,  sir,  in  answer  to  that  —  thingumbob  you 
had  in  the  —  what  you  may  call  it. 

Gout.   The  what  ] 

W.  T.  Why,  you  know  —  the  —  0,  dear  !  the  —  the  —  ad- 
vertisement. 

Gout.    0,  you  are  a  reader,  are  you  ? 

W.  T.    Yes,  something  in  that  line. 

Gout.    Who  are  you  ? 

W.  T.    What's-his-uame  Thingamy. 

Gout.    Who  's  he  ?    I  don't  ask  his  name,  I  ask  yours. 

W.  T.    I  told  you  my  name. 

Gout.    Look  here,  no  contradicting  !    What 's  your  name  1 

W.  T.    What's-his-name. 

Gout.  0,  I  'm  getting  into  a  passion !  Will  you  tell  me 
your  name  ] 

W.  T.    My  name  is  What's-his-name  Thingamy. 

Gout.    Where  did  you  get  that  name  ] 

W.  T.    It  was  given  me  by  my  parents,  of  course. 

Gout.  Well !  it 's  a  queer  name,  anyhow.  Well,  Thingamy 
What  's-his-name  — 

W.  T.    No,  sir  !    What  's-his-name  Thingamy. 

Gout.    Well,  well !    What  can  you  do  ] 

W.  T.    A  little  of  anything  and  everything. 

Gout.    Well,  give  me  a  specimen  of  your  reading. 

W.  T.    What  shall  I  read  1  the  —  what  you  may  call  it  1 

Gout.  I  don't  know  what  you  may  call  it.  But  I  wish  to 
hear  your  style  of  delivery  in  Hamlet's  soliloquy.    You  know  itl 

W,  T.    0  yes  !  I  acted  it  once  in  the  — 

Jenxy.    What  's-his-name.    {Laughs.) 

W.  T.    What  's-its-name.     The  — 

Jenny.    Thingamy.    (Laughs.) 

W.  T.    Thingamy,  the  theati-e.    Pla3'ed  it  six  nights.     Tre- 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  307 

mendous  —  what  you  may  call  it  —  house.    Showers  of  Thing- 
umbob —  applause  —  made  a  great  what  is  it  —  hit. 

Gout  (aside).  0,  I  shall  make  a  hit  pretty  soon.  Will  you 
go  on  with  the  soliloquy  1 

W.  T.    Certainly  !    To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  — 

Jenny.    What  you  may  call  it. 
{During  this  delivery  of  the  soliloquy,  GouT  is  getting  into  a  passion,  shaking 
his  fist  at  Jennt  as  she  interrupts.) 

W.  T.    What  you  may  call  it. 

AVhether  't  is  better  in  the  — 

Jenny.    Thingamy. 

W.  T.    Thingamy  to  suffer  ; 
Or  to  take  — 

Jenny.    What  's-its-name. 

W.  T.    What  's-its-name,  against  a  — 

Jenny,    ^^^lat  you  may  call  it. 

W.  T.    What  you  may  call  it  of  — 

Jenny.    Thingumbob. 

W.  T.    Thingumbob. 

Gout.    0,  pshaw  !    Do  you  call  that  reading  1 

W.  T.  Well,  you  see  my  what 's  its  name  —  memory  is  a 
little  defective. 

Gout.  A  little  !  I  should  say  it  was  !  You  won't  suit  me, 
Mr.  Thingumbob  or  Thingamy  ;  so  you  may  leave  as  soon  as 
possible. 

W.  T.    Well,  but  Mr.  What  's-your-name  — 

Gout.  Jenny,  show  Mr.  Thingamy  out  of  the  "  what  you 
may  call  it "  in  double-quick  time. 

W.  T.    But,  Mr.  What  — 

Gout.  What 's  that  to  you  1  Leave,  quick  !  (Exit  W.  T.  and 
Jenny.)  Was  ever  a  man  so  plagued  ?  a  parcel  of  ignorant 
jackanapes,  who  know  no  more  about  reading  than,  a  cat 
about  empyrical  psychology.    (.En^er  Jenny.)    Well,  who  now? 

Jenny.    0,  another  applicant. 

Gout.  Well,  well,  show  him  in,  quick  !  (£:tz7  Jenny.)  More 
elocutionary  displays.  (Enle  Stuttering  Steve.)  Well,  sir,  are 
you  a  reader  ] 


308  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Steve.  Y-e-e-s,  sir ;  I  'm  an  el-el-el-ocution-a-a-aiy  t-t-t- 
teacher. 

Gout.    The  deuce  you  are  ! 

Steve.  Yes,  sir  ;  f-f-finely  ed-ed-ed-u-ca-ca-ted  in  the  art  of 
el-el-el-o-cu-cu-tion,  pr-pr-prep-pare  folks  for  the  st-st-st-age. 

Gout.    Prepare  fiddlesticks  ! 

Steve.    No,  sir ;  I  ain't  a  f-f-f-fiddler. 

Gout.  What  !  you  an  elocutionist,  with  that  confounded 
stutter  1 

Steve.    I  don't  stut-stut-stut-ter. 

Gout.  Don't  you  1  Well,  this  is  pleasant.  Can  you  read 
Hamlet's  soliloquy  ? 

Steve.   Yes,  sir ;  I  can  r-r-r-attle  it  off. 

Gout.    Well,  then,  r-r-r-attle  away. 

Steve. 

To  b-b-b-be,  or  not  t-t-to  be-be-be,  that  is  the  q-q-q-uestion 
W-w-w-e-ther  't  is  b-b-b-b-etter  in  the  m-m-mind  t-t-to  s-s-sufFer, 
The  sl-sl-sl-ings  and  ar-ar-ar-rows  of  out-out-rageous  f-f-fortune, 
Or  t-t-to  t-t-t-ake  az'-ar-ar-ms  a-g-g-g-ainst  a  sea  of  t-t-t-t-roubles. 

Gout.  There,  that  will  do :  why,  you  infernal  impostor, 
you  can't  read  ! 

Steve.    C-c-c-can't  I,  though  1 

Gout.   No,  you  won't  suit. 

Steve.  V-v-v-very  s-s-sorry,  s-sir ;  are  you  the  in-v-v-v- 
alid? 

Gout.  What 's  that  to  you  1 

Steve.    P-p-pray,  sir,  are  you  a-1-l-l-l-one  1 

Gout.    What 's  that  to  you  ] 

Steve.  0,  n-n-n-othing ;  only  its  d-d-d-an-gerous  to  be  an 
in-v-v-v-alid,  and  be  a-a-a-lone.  S-s-s-uppose  s-s-somebody, 
not  as  hon-hon-hon-est  as  I  am,  sh-sh-sh-should  c-c-c-ome  in 
here,  and  f-f-find  you  alone,  they  might  t-t-t-take  up  this 
w-w-watch,  s-s-so  [takes  watch),  these  sp-p-p-p-pec-t-t-t-acles,s-s-so, 
{takes  spectacles),  b-b-b-b-blow  Out  the  1-1-light  s-S-SO  (blows  out  light), 
and  1-1-1-leave  s-s-so.  [Exit. 

Gout.    Murder,  murder,  murder  !    (Enter  Hieam  Okcutt.) 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  309 

Orcutt.    Halloo,  old  man  !  what 's  the  matter  1 

Gout.    A  light,  quick  ! 

Hiram.  Well,  I  can  just  do  that ;  I  've  got  a  box  of  the 
Universal  Safety-Match  right  here  in  my  pocket ;  and  they 
do  say  "  they  beat  the  old  scratch."    {Lights  candle.) 

Gout.    Well,  now,  what  do  you  want  here  again  1 

Orcutt.  Well,  I  just  dropped  in  to  see  if  you  had  n't 
changed  your  mind. 

Gout.  No,  I  have  n't.  0,  I  've  been  robbed  !  I  'm  un- 
done ! 

Orcutt.  0,  well,  I  can  do  you  up  again.  (Stoops  to  take  hold 
of  Govt's  foot.) 

Gout.  Get  out !  let  that  foot  alone  !  Do  you  want  to  drive 
me  mad  1 

Orcutt  (aside).  Gritting  his  teeth,  and  spasmodic  contrac- 
tions of  the  shanks.  That  old  man  's  got  the  lockjaw  ;  got  it 
bad,  too.  Look  here,  Hiram  !  yeow  ought  to  know  what 's 
good  for  lockjaw.     By  jingo  !  just  the  thing. 

Gout.    What  are  you  about  there  1    Here,  Jenny  ! 

Orcutt.  I  'm  off.  He 's  a  pesky  obstinate  critter ;  but,  if 
I  can't  cure  him,  my  name 's  not  Hiram  Orcutt.  (Exit.  Enter 
Jenny.) 

Gout.  Jenny  !  where  have  you  kept  yourself  all  this  time  1 
I  've  been  robbed  !     W^here's  that  stuttering  fellow  1 

Jenny.    I  don't  know,  sir  ;  I  left  him  with  you. 

Gout.  He 's  robbed  me  and  gone.  I  '11  have  no  more 
readers  in  the  house. 

Jenny.    There  's  another  man  wants  to  see  you. 

Gout.    Another  reader  1 

Jenny.    I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  he  's  very  mysterious. 

Gout.  Well,  let's  see  him.  (Exit  Jenhy.)  I'll  make  one 
more  trial.     (Enter  Mike,  very  cautiously.) 

Mike.    'Sh  !  —  'sh  !  —  whist  —  'sh  !  — 

Gout.    What  ails  you  1    What  do  you  want  1 

Mike.    Are  you  Mr.  Invalid  ]  'sh  !  — 

Gout.    Mr.  Who  ] 

Mike.    Mr.  Invalid,  the  man  what  wants  a  raider,  'sh  !  — 


310  PUBLIC   AND   PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Gout.  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  that  '"sh  ! " —  Yes, 
I  'm  the  man  who  advertised. 

Mike.  Thin  I  'm  the  b'y  for  you,  —  Mike  McShane,  — 
shtrong  for  a  whiskey-bout,  and  mighty  powerful  at  a  shindy, 
'sh!  — 

Gout.    You  won't  suit. 

Mike.    Won't  1 1    Jist  thry  me. 

Gout.   Why,  you  've  had  no  education. 

Mike.  Have  n't  I !  Wa'  n't  I  brought  up  by  the  Game 
Chicken,  of  Dubhn  1 

Gout.  The  Game  Chicken !  that 's  a  pretty  name  for  a 
teacher  of  elocution ! 

Mike.  0,  it  was  a  mighty  fine  execution  that  he  had  ! 
'sh  !     Whin  does  the  expedition  start  1 

Gout.    Expedition !    What  ails  the  man  1    'WTio  are  you  1 

Mike.  Don't  I  tell  you  I  'm  a  raider  1  Is  't  to  Cauader  ye  's 
going  1  'sh  !  — 

Gout.  If  you  are  a  reader,  give  me  a  specimen  of  your 
powers  of  execution. 

Mike.    Powers  of  what  1 

Gout.    Powei-s  of  execution ;  a  display  of  your  talents. 

Mike.  Powers  of  execution !  That 's  what  the  Game 
Chicken  called  a  beautiful  display  of  the  undei'-cut  and  the 
square-lick. 

Gout.    Well,  why  don't  you  begin  1 

Mike.    Where  will  I  begin  1 

Gout.    Why,  here,  to  be  sure,  before  me. 

Mike.  Before  him  !  The  ould  feUer  wants  a  maulin' ;  he  's 
got  the  rheumatiz,  and  wants  a  warming  up.  Well,  well,  I  '11 
show  him.     ( Takes  off  his  coat.) 

Gout.    What  are  you  doing  1    Why  don't  you  begin  1 

Mike.  I  'm  a  coming  to  it  :  give  me  a  chance  to  develop 
my  muscle.    Now,  old  gentleman,  you  want  to  see  my  powers 

of  execution.     (Squares  off,  and  flourishes  his  fists.) 

Gout.    Why,  what  are  3'ou  doing  1 

Mike  {dancing  and  flourishing  his  fists).  Now,  mind  your  eye; 
for  I  'm  going  to  show  you  the  under-cut  and  the  square-lick. 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  311 

Gout.    Murder,  murder  !    Jennj^,  Jenny  ! 

Mike.  Divil  a  bit  will  I  murder  you,  only  a  black  eye  will 
you  git. 

Gout.    Keep  away,  you  infernal  Irishman  ! 

Mike.    0,  I  '11  only  shave  your  nose  a  bit. 

Gout.  Jenny,  Jenny !  {Enter  Jenny.)  Get  somebody  and 
take  this  man  away,  quick  ! 

Jenny.    Why,  sir  !  you  must  n't  behave  in  this  manner. 

Mike.  To  be  sure  not,  before  such  a  purty  girl.  I  ax 
your  pardon,  mam.  The  old  gentleman  wanted  to  see  my 
powers  of  execution  ;  but,  faith !  these  bright  eyes  do  too 
much  execution  for  me  to  have  any  powers. 

Gout.  What  do  you  mean  by  this  violence  1  Do  you  call 
that  reading  Shakespeare  1 

Mike.  No  ;  but  I  call  this  a  raiding  Shake-fist.  {Flourishing 
arm.)    W^hat  the  divil  do  I  know  about  Shakespeare  ] 

Gout.    Can  you  read?    (Showing book.) 

Mike.  Raid,  then  1  never  at  all  at  all.  0,  murther  !  Mike 
McShane,  you  've  made  a  wee  bit  uv  a  mistake.  I  thought 
it  was  a  raider  you  wanted  to  go  into  Canader,  and  take  it. 

Gout.  Well,  you  are  a  blundering  Irishman.  I  want  no 
raiders  or  fighters. 

Mike.  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon  ;  but  you  see  my  friend, 
Phil  Tooley,  said  there  was  a  bit  of  a  notice  for  a  raider  in 
the  paper ;  and  I  thought  it  was  some  expedition  up  North 
you  had  in  view. 

Gout.  Well,  well,  you  can  go.  Jenny,  show  him  out. 
You  had  better  learn  to  read  before  you  answer  any  more 
advertisements. 

Mike.  Yes,  sir ;  I  'm  obliged  to  yer  honor.  I  '11  jist  step 
down  and  show  Phil  Tooley  a  specimen  of  my  powers  of  exe- 
cution. [Exit  Mike  and  .Jenny. 

Gout.  I  've  had  quite  enough  of  readers  ;  and  if  Robert 
would  only  come  back,  I  shoidd  be  tempted  to  forgive  him. 
(Enter  Hiram  Orcutt,  with  a  red-hot  poker.)  You  here  again  1  What 
have  you  got  there  1 

Orcutt.    Old    gentleman,    it 's   very   evident    that    your 


312  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

trouble  is  caused  by  lockjaw.  You  've  got  it  bad  ;  and  I  'm 
going  to  cure  you,  in  spite  of  yourself.  So  keep  quiet ;  for 
that  bandage  has  got  to  come  off,  and  this  hot  iron  must  be 
inserted  into  your  foot  to  the  depth  of  several  inches. 

Gout.    You  infernal  scoundrel !  what  do  you  mean  1 

Orcutt.  Mean  to  do  a  little  surgery.  I  'm  going  to  do  you 
good  in  spite  of  yourself.  I  'm  going  to  cure  you.  (Approaches 
him.) 

Gout  (flourishing  his  arms).    Keep  off,  keep  off ! 

Orcutt.    Don't  holler  so  ;  it  only  hurts  for  a  minute. 

Gout.    Keep  off,  I  tell  you,  keep  off !    Jenny,  Jenny  ! 

Orcutt.  Keep  still,  old  man  !  (Stoops  down  to  foot,  Godt  kicks 
him  over,  jumps  up,  and  runs  about  the  stage,  crying,  "  Help,  murder !  " 
Hiram  picks  himself  up,  and  runs  after  him.  All  the  characters  enter,  and 
Robert  comes  and  catches  Godt  in  his  arms.) 

Gout.    0  Robert,  save  me  ! 

Robert.  All  right,  uncle.  (To  Hiram.)  Put  ujf  that  iron, 
sir  !     What  are  you  trying  to  do  1 

Orcutt.    To  cure  a  bad  case  of  lockjaw. 

Robert.    Lockjaw  !  why,  my  uncle  's  got  the  gout  ! 

Orcutt.  The  gout,  the  deuce  !  Well,  I  've  made  a  pretty 
blunder  here.     Got  the  gout,  has  he  1 

Gout  (starting  up).  No,  he  has  n't ;  for  every  twinge  has  dis- 
appeared, thanks  to  your  new  remedy  !  I  feel  as  good  as  new. 
(Enter  Jenny.) 

Jenny.    There  's  another  applicant  below,  sir. 

Gout.  Let  him  stop  below.  I  want  no  more  readers. 
Robert,  I  '11  give  in  ;  you  may  take  arms  against  a  sea  of 
trouble,  and  I  '11  drop  the  oars.  But  why  are  all  these  people 
here  1     Why,  they  are  my  rejected  readers  ! 

Robert.  Uncle,  I  have  been  interfering  a  little  in  your 
affairs  ;  knowing  your  partiality  for  Hamlet's  soliloquy,  I 
have  been  teaching  these  gentlemen.  They  acted  by  my 
orders. 

Gout.  0  you  villain  !  I  understand ;  but  what  shall  we 
do  with  them  ? 

Robert.   Thank  them,  and  let  them  go. 


A   SEA   OF   TROUBLES.  313 

Gout.  We  '11  do  more  than  that ;  we  '11  give  them  a  good 
dinner. 

Bobolink.    Dinner ! 

Before  my  famished  eyes 

Roast  beef,  spring  chickens,  and  wild  fowl  arise.     (Sighs.) 

Hiram.  That  chap's  bilious.  My  Oderifrous  Muskeeter 
Tormentor  will  draw  it  down  as  slick  as  goose-grease. 

W.  T.  A  dinner !  that  reminds  me  of  Mr.  What  's-his- 
name  — 

Jenny.    What  you  may  call  it. 

W.  T.    What  you  may  call  it. 

Steve.  D-d-d-d-inner  !  that 's  s-s-o-o-omething  good  to  eat, 
that 's  so ! 

Mike.  Dinner,  is  it  1  Faith,  I  '11  have  a  chance  to  display 
my  powers  of  execution  with  a  knife  and  fork. 

Gout.  Yes,  and  a  good  dinner ;  for  no  doubt  the  kind 
friends  before  us  will  say  you  deserve  it,  for  having  at  last 
brought  me  safely  through  "A  Sea  of  Troubles.  " 


Note.  —  A  masculine  character,  to  be  called  Sam,  may  be  substituted 
for  the  part  of  Jenny,  if  preferred ;  and  the  lines  so  altered  as  to  con- 
form. 


314  PUBLIC  AND   PAKLOR   DIALOGUES. 

THE  TRUTH-SPEAKER. 

A  SCENE  IN  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

GovEENOR  Griswold  ;    Hetty  Marvin,  his  young  cousin;   English 
Officer;  Guide;  British  Soldiers. 

Scene,  a  green  bank  in  a  meadow.  A  fence  in  the  background.  Hetty 
knitting  a  woollen  sock,  as  she  watches  some  linen  which  is  bleaching  in  the 
sun. 

HETTY.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight, 
nine.  Three  more  rows,  and  then  I  must  knit  the 
heel.  I  was  knitting  these  for  Brother  Jack  ;  but  I  pity 
poor  Cousin  Griswold  so  much  that  mother  says  I  may  give 
them  to  him, — that  is,  if  I  get  them  done  before  he  goes 
away.  Poor  man !  how  he  must  feel,  shut  up  in  that  little 
dark  attic  all  this  time,  and  expecting  every  minute  to  hear 
the  British  soldiers  knocking  at  the  door,  and  demanding  en- 
trance to  search  for  Governor  Griswold.  (Shuddering.)  Ugh  !  I 
am  glad  I  am  not  a  governor  !  If  I  were,  I  suppose  the  Red- 
coats would  be  after  me ;  and  then  I  should  be  hung  or  shot, 
unless  I  would  promise  to  obey  King  George.  But  I  would  n't 
promise  any  such  thing,  any  more  than  Cousin  Griswold 
would,  —  and  he  would  die  first  !  I  wonder  if  my  linen 
needs  sprinkling  again!  (Taking  hold  of  the  linen.)  I  declare,  it 
is  quite  dry  already  I  ( Takes  up  pail  of  water,  and  begins  sprinkling. 
She  starts  as  Governor  Griswold  leaps  over  the  fence.) 

Griswold.  Hetty,  I  shall  lose  my  life  unless  I  can  get  to 
the  boat  before  the  soldiers  come.  You  see  where  the  roads 
part,  close  by  the  orchard ;  I  want  you  to  run  down  towards 
the  shore,  and  meet  the  soldiers,  who  are  sure  to  ask  for  me, 
and  then  you  must  tell  them  that  I  am  gone  up  the  road  to 
catch  the  mail-cart,  and  they  will  turn  off  the  other  way. 

Hetty.  But,  cousin,  how  can  I  say  so?  it  would  not  be 
true.     0,  why  did  you  tell  me  which  way  you  were  going  ? 

Gris.  Would  you  betray  me,  Hetty,  and  see  me  put  to 
death  ]     Hark !  they  are  coming.     I  hear  the  clink  of  the 


THE   TRUTH-SPEAKER.  315 

horses'  feet.  Tell  them  I  have  gone  up  the  road,  and  Heaven 
will  bless  you. 

Hetty.  Those  who  speak  false  words  will  never  be  happy. 
But  they  shall  not  make  me  tell  which  way  you  go,  even  if 
they  kill  me,  —  so  run  as  fast  as  you  can. 

Gris.    It  is  too  late  to  run !     Where  can  I  hide  myself] 

Hetty.  Be  quick,  cousin  !  Come  down  and  lie  under  this 
cloth ;  I  will  thi'ow  it  over  you,  and  go  on  sprinkling  the 
linen. 

Gris.  I  will  come  down,  for  it  is  my  last  chance.  (Hetty 
quickly  covers  him  unth  the  linen,  and  goes  on  with  her  sprinkling.  Enter 
Bkitish  Officek,  Guide,  and  Soldiers.     Soldiers  in  background.) 

Officer.    Have  you  seen  a  man  i-un  by  this  way  1 

Hetty.    Yes,  sir. 

Off.    Which  way  did  he  go  1 

Hetty.    I  promised  not  to  tell,  sir. 

Off.  But  you  must  tell  me  this  instant,  or  it  will  be  worse 
for  you. 

Hetty.    I  will  not  tell,  for  I  must  keep  my  word. 

Guide.  Let  me  speak,  for  I  think  I  know  the  child.  Is 
your  name  Hetty  Marvin  1 

Hetty.    Yes,  sir. 

Guide.  Perhaps  the  man  who  ran  past  you  was  your 
cousin  1 

Hetty.    Yes,  sir,  he  was. 

Guide.  Well,  we  wish  to  speak  with  him.  What  did  he 
say  to  you  when  he  came  by  1 

Hetty.    He  told  me  that  he  had  to  run  to  save  his  life. 

Guide.  Just  so  ;  that  was  quite  true.  I  hope  he  will  not 
have  far  to  run.     Where  was  he  going  to  hide  himself  1 

Hetty.  My  cousin  said  that  he  would  go  to  the  river  to 
find  a  boat,  and  he  wanted  me  to  tell  the  men  in  search  of 
him  that  he  had  gone  the  other  way  to  meet  the  mail-cart. 

Off.  (nwlding  significantly  to  the  Guide  )  You  are  a  good  girl, 
Hetty,  and  we  know  you  speak  truth,  Wliat  diil  j'our  cousin 
say  when  he  heard  that  you  could  not  tell  a  lie  to  save  his 
life] 


316  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Hetty.  He  said,  "  Would  I  betray  him,  and  see  him  put 
to  death  ] " 

Off.  And  you  said  you  would  not  tell,  if  you  were  killed 
for  it.1 

Hetty  (sobbing).    Yes,  sir. 

Off.  Those  were  brave  words ;  and  I  suppose  he  thanked 
you,  and  ran  down  the  road  as  fast  as  he  could  ? 

Hetty.    I  promised  not  to  tell  which  way  he  went,  sir. 

Off.  0  yes,  I  forgot ;  but  tell  me  his  last  words,  and  I  will 
not  trouble  you  any  more. 

Hetty  {sobbing,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  apron).  He  said,  "  I  will 
come  down,  for  it  is  my  last  chance." 

Off.  {aside  to  Guide).  We  are  posted.  We  have  got  what 
we  wanted.  We  '11  catch  him,  if  we  're  off  quick.  ( To  subor- 
dinate.) Give  your  marching  orders.  (Soldieks  march  off.) 
You  're  a  nice  little  girl  {To  Hetty)  ;  and  here  is  something 
to  buy  you  a  new  ribbon  or  two.  ( Throws  down  a  purse  of  money 
and  goes  off.) 

Hetty  sobs  a  moment  in  silence ;  looks  after  them ;  picks  up  the  purse,  and 
indignantly  throws  it  after  them. 

Oris,  {looking  out  from  under  the  linen  folds).  Are  they  Out  of  sight, 
Hetty  1 

Hetty  {glancing  down  the  road).   Yes ;  and  0,  you  are  lost ! 

Oris,  {speaking  hurriedly).  I  'm  not  SO  sure  of  that,  my  girl. 
Go  into  the  house  quick,  and  tell  your  mother  to  hang  a 
white  cloth  out  of  the  upper  window !  No  time  to  be  lost 
now  !  (Exit  Hetty.)  My  men  are  in  the  boat  by  the  shore  of 
the  river.  When  they  see  the  signal  they  will  know  danger 
is  at  hand.  They  will  push  off  into  the  stream  and  watch 
for  more  signals  from  me.  (Hetty  enters.)  Now  step  out  on 
the  hill  in  sight  of  the  river,  and  tell  me  what  you  see. 
Hetty  retires,  hut  remains  within  speaking  distance. 

Hetty.    I  can  see  a  boat  pushing  off  into  the  stream. 
Gris.    All  right !     Do  the  men  pull  hard  1 
Hetty.    Yes,  I  never  saw  men  row  so  fast  before. 
Gris.    What  else  do  you  see  1 


THE   TRUTH-SPEAKER.  317 

Hetty.    I  see  the  Redcoats  just  going  down  to  the  shore. 

Gris.    Good  !     Ha  !  ha  !     Look  again  ! 

Hetty  (shading  her  eyes).  They  are  looking  after  the  boat. 
The  British  officer  has  a  spy-glass.  He  tiirns  and  speaks  to 
the  guide. 

Gris.    Softly  !     Now  what  1 

Hetty.    They  turn  around,  and  leave  the  shore. 

Gris.  Thank  Heaven  !  They  think  I  am  in  the  boat. 
Look  once  more,  my  good  Hetty  ! 

Hetty.  They  have  left  the  shore,  and  are  hiuTying  off 
towards  the  next  town. 

Gris.  Safe  !  safe  !  And  all  through  yoji,  my  brave  Hetty  ! 
(Hetty  advances  towards  Griswold,  clapping  her  hands).  Now  go  in 
and  get  your  supper.  When  it  is  dark,  put  a  light  in  the 
attic  window. 

Hetty.    I  will. 

Gris.  My  men  will  see  it,  and  come  back  in  the  boat  for 
me,  and  I  shall  get  beyond  the  reach  of  the  Redcoats. 

Hetty.  Cousin,  I  am  so  glad  for  you !  Come  with  me  and 
get  some  warm  supper. 

Gris.  No,  Hetty,  I  must  not  do  that ;  I  will  stay  here. 
And  when  it  is  quite  dark,  bring  me  my  little  bundle  of 
clothing,  and  something  to  eat.  I  shall  quietly  make  my 
way  down  to  the  boat  when  I  hear  the  oars. 

Hetty.    Well,  good  by,  cousin  ! 

Gris.  Good  by,  Hetty  !  If  all  our  soldiers  were  as  brave 
and  true  as  you  are,  we  should  not  have  to  fight  many  years 
before  we  should  say  in  truth,  America  is  free  ! 


318  PUBLIC   AND   PAELOR   DIALOGUES. 

MONSIEUR  JACQUES. 

Mr.  Sequence  ;  Monsieur  Jacques  ;  Vivid  ;  Antonio  ;  Nina. 

Scene,  Dover.  An  attic.  Door,  l.  h.,  leading  to  another  room.  A  door, 
K.  H.  Window  in  flat,  through  which  is  seen  a  view  of  the  sea.  A  piano- 
forte, L.  H.,  upon  which  are  scattered  loose  sheets  of  music  (MS.)  and  a  full 
score.  An  old  bookcase  in  flat,  r.  h.,  containing  a  few  odd  volumes  and 
printed  music.  A  small  table  and  biiflet;  some  chairs,  one  or  two  of  which 
are  bottomless.  The  whole  scene  wears  an  air  of  extreme  poverty.  At  the 
rising  of  the  curtain  a  knocking  at  door,  r.  h. 

Enter  Sequence,  r.  h.  door. 

SEQUENCE  (putting  his  head  in  at  the  door).  I  suppose  I  may 
come  in  1  Eh  !  the  orchestra  empty  ]  Madam,  follow 
your  leader.  Mind  the  stairs  !  —  this  way,  I  am  used  to  act 
as  conductor,  —  this  way  ! 

Enter  Nina,  r.  h.  door. 

I  am  really  very  sorry  you  should  have  had  to  mount  four 
octaves,  —  I  mean  four  stories  high.  Quite  a  bit  of  luck  to 
have  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you  last  night  at  Signora 
Squeakini's  concert.  Would  it  be  taking  a  very  great  liberty 
to  ask  if  you  are  musical  1 

Nina.    I  have  studied  music  from  my  infancy. 

Sequence.  Bravo  !  then  the  affair,  I  trust,  is  settled ;  you 
really  must  take  my  apartment.  I  am  perfect  master  of 
every  instrument,  —  am  principal  kettle-drum  at  the  Dover 
Philharmonic,  and,  though  I  say  it,  I  have  produced  some 
works. 

Nina.  I  am  aware  that  the  public  is  already  indebted  to 
you  for  several  charming  ballads;  the  one  sung  last  night 
was  singularly  beautiful. 

Sequence.  0,  what !  my  "  Azure  Eyes  "  1  You  have  not 
yet  seen  my  "  Radiant  Locks  "  1,  The  young  amateurs  prefer 
"  My  Faithless  Bride,"  though  /  think  very  little  of  that  one 
myself 

Nina.    I  believe  this  is  the  apartment  you  intend  for  my 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  319 

servant  1  From  what  you  said,  I  supposed  it  much  larger. 
Indeed,  Antonio  is  rather  a  friend  than  a  ■  servant. 

Sequexce.  You  have  not  seen  all,  madam  ;  there  is  an- 
other, much  larger  and  more  commodious.  I  intend  to  have 
them  both  fresh-papered  ;  cherubims  blowing  trombones,  — 
quite  charming,  if  your  servant  is  miisical.  ( Goes  towards  door, 
L.  H.)  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  other  room.  (Tries 
the  door  and  finds  it  locked.)  Dear  me,  it 's  locked  !  {Peeping  through 
the  keyhole.)  Not  up  yet ;  at  this  time  of  day,  too,  — forty  bars 
rest.     A  lazy  old  fellow,  madam  ;  but  I  '11  soon  rouse  him. 

Nina.    Do  not  disturb  any  one,  I  beg.     I  can  call  again. 

Sequence.  There  is  no  need  of  ceremony  with  him.  He  's 
a  horrid  bad  lodger,  —  owes  three  quarters'  rent. 

Nina  (going  towards  piano).    A  musician  1 

Sequence.  Yes,  —  um,  —  a  sort  of  musician,  a  poor  devil ! 
He  used  to  give  lessons,  but  it  would  n't  do  ;  his  pupils  foimd 
him  rather  cracked,  so  he  soon  lost  the  few  he  had.  Bless 
you,  he  will  sit  for  hours  at  that  window,  as  though  he  ex- 
pected the  arrival  of  some  vessel  :  he  fancies  he  sees  it  sail- 
ing towards  him ;  rushes  down  stairs  in  6-8  time,  and 
watches  the  face  of  every  passenger  as  they  come  ashore  ; 
then,  disappointed,  his  head  drops,  and  he  wanders  back  to 
this  wretchedly  furnished  room  :  the  furniture  is  his  own, 
madam. 

Nina.    Unfortunate  being ! 

Sequence.    You  perceive  there  is  no  necessity  to  —   ( Going 

to  door,  L.  H.) 

Nina.  Hold,  sir  !  your  story  of  the  poor  old  man  has 
much  interested  me  :  he  must  not  be  turned  out  on  my  ac- 
count.    (She  goes  to  piano  and  looks  at  the  loose  music.) 

Sequence.  Well,  madam,  if  you  do  not  wish  him  to  go, 
your  servant  can  occupy  the  other  room ;  for  there  is  another 
lodger  on  this  floor  :  he  's  a  poet,  but  unfortunately  as  desti- 
tute as  the  other. 

Nina  {who  has  been  looking  at  a  sheet  of  music).  This  is  very 
Btrangc  !  Why,  this  is  the  ballad  that  was  last  night  sung  at 
the  concert. 


320  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Sequence  (confused).  My  ballad !  0  yes,  yes,  it  is  my 
ballad.  You  see,  from  motives  of  charity,  I  frequently  give 
this  poor  devil  my  music  to  cc^j/.  {Aside.)  The  old  fool  has 
kept  the  original ;  I  thought  I  had  them  both.  I  '11  take 
better  care  for  the  future.  (Footsteps  Iieard.)  I  think  I  hear  your 
servant. 

Enter  Antonio,  r.  h.  door. 

Nina  (crossing  to  Antonio).    Have  you  made  any  discovery] 
Antonio  (aside  to  Nina).    It  is  of  that  I  wish  to  tell  you. 
Nina.    I  engage  your  apartments,  and  will  to-morrow  take 
possession.     Come,  Antonio. 

As  they  are  going,  enter  Vivid  at  door  l.  h.,  rapidly,  with  a  sheet  of  paper 
in  his  hand ;  he  does  not  perceive  them. 

Vivid.  My  dear  friend,  here  is  the  finale.  (Sees  Nina.)  A 
thousand  pardons,  madam  ! 

Nina  (aside).    Again  this  young  man  ! 

Vivid.    As  I  live,  my  incognita ! 

Antonio  (to  Sequence).    Who  is  that  person? 

Sequence.  0,  the  old  man's  fellow-lodger.  (To  Nina.)  The 
poet  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you. 

Nina.    If  I  mistake  not,  we  have  met  before. 

Vivid.    Yes,  miss,  —  madam,  —  on  the  beach. 

Antonio.    Come,  madam,  we  have  much  to  do. 

Nina.    Yes,  let  us  be  gone. 

Sequence.  Allow  me,  madam, —  (Crosses  to  n.  n.  door.)  I'll 
conduct  you  down  ;  take  care  of  the  step ;  this  way,  madam, 
if  you  please. 

Sequence  goes  out  first ;  Vivid  hows  timidly  to  Nina,  who  courtesies  and 
goes  out,  followed  by  Antonio,  e.  h.  door. 

Vivid.  She  here  !  in  the  humble  apartment  of  my  poor 
friend  !  What  could  have  caused  this  visit  1  Perhaps,  like  a 
guardian  spirit,  to  succor  him.  I  dared  not  even  look  at  her. 
(Runs  to  window.)  What  if  I  follow  and  ascertain  where  she 
resides  1  No,  no,  it  would  be  worse  than  folly.  I  will  leave 
my  finale,  and  seek  one  more  glance,  though  I  feel  't  is  mad- 
ness. [Exit  hastily,  door  r.  h. 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  321 

Enter  Jacques  at  door  r.  h.  ;  he  is  absent  and  pensive,  his  arms  folded.  He 
tval/cs  about  the  stage  slowli/ ;  suddenly  rushes  to  the  loindow,  returns,  throws 
himself  into  a  chair,  sighs  despondingly ,  rises,  and  draws  from  his  bosom  a 
small  note.  —  Music. 

Jacques  {reading).  "Pars!  fuis,  mon  cher  Jacques!  je  volerai 
sur  tes  traces  aussitot  que  je  pourrai ;  bientot  nous  nous  rever- 
rons."  (Repeats,  without  reading.)  "Go !  fly  away,  my  dear  Jacques; 
I  will  be  upon  your  heel  as  soon  as  I  am  able  ;  soon  we  shall  to 
see  one  anoder  again."  Here  is  twenty  years  ago  dat  she  write 
this,  and  she  has  not  yet  arrive !  De  age,  or  rader  de  deep  suf- 
fering, have  ride  mon  visage,  ruled  my  face  wid  lines,  and  she 
has  not  yet  arrive.  (He  kisses  tJie  letter.)  Ah!  dese  are  not  de 
light  words  to  be  brake,  —  "I  will  be  upon  your  heel  as  soon 
as  I  am  able."  Have  she  not  been  able  yet  to  be  upon  my 
heel  1  Mais,  I  am  tranquille,  —  elle  viendra.  Ah,  oui,  — 
yes,  —  she  shall  come,  becose  she  know  dat  I  expect  her  dis 
twenty  years.  (He  folds  the  letter  carefully  and  places  it  in  his  bosom.) 
Mariana  !  chere  Mariana  !  let  us  to  look  once  again.  ( Goes  to 
windoic.)  Rien  !  noting  but  de  boat  of  de  Jiskmaji  /  (Returns.) 
Ah !  it  shall  not  be  no  more  to-day  dat  I  strain  my  eye.  Mais, 
■ —  but,  —  demain,  —  to-morrow,  peut-etre,  —  perhaps,  —  yes, 
I  do  expect  her  to-moiTow,  to-morrow  ! 

AIR. 

Dat  word  wich  console  us,  —  "  To-morrow,  to-morrow," 
He  bring  wid  him  hope  when  he  come  to  de  heart,  — 

Mariana,  my  wife,  come  and  banish  my  sorrow, 
And  jamais  —  non,  never  —  again  shall  we  part! 

When,  day  after  day,  I  feel  life  away  wasting, 

And  dis  hand  vitch  wafi  fort  tremble  now  more  and  more; 

Now  my  hair  it  is  silvered,  —  no  happiness  tasting,  — 
Still  "  to-morrow  "  I  vispare,  —  but  soon  't  will  be  o'er. 

Allons  !  allons  !  let  me  drive  far  away  from  me  dose  ideas. 
(Goes  to  piano,  sees  paper  that  Vivid  has  left.)  Qu'est-CC-que-c'est  qui 
vat  is  dis  ?  Ah,  ray  finale  !  A  la  bonne  heure  !  Vivid  have 
already  been  here  ;  he  are  so  good  boy,  —  he  not  had  wish  to 
wakes  me.     ( Reads  paper. ) 

V 


322  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOE   DIALOGUES. 

"  Sound  the  clarion  !  strike  the  drum  ! 
War  her  flag  of  courage  waving,  — 
The  warriors  cry,  '  They  come  !  they  come  ! 
Patriot  hearts  all  danger  braving ! " 

Tres  bien  !  it  is  capital,  —  and  my  musique  is  a  capital  also. 
This  night,  pendant  le  silence,  —  when  all  was  hush,  I  com- 
pose my  overture ;  and  the  emotion  vich  it  make  me  prove 
that  my  musique  is  handsome.  Apres  my  dejeuner,  after  my 
breakfast,  I  shall  compose  dis  finale.  (Opens  buffet.)  Mon  Dieu  ! 
I  forgot,  —  il  n'y  a  plus  rien  !  dere  is  noting  no  more  leave. 
(Shuts  buffet.)  Ah!  c'est  vrai,  —  it  is  true;  I  remember  I  eat 
yesterday  for  my  souper  the  little  bit  fromage,  —  the  cheese 
that  remained  me.  Never  mind,  it  is  already  late,  and  the 
morning  will  soon  be  finish.  Tiuking  of  my  opera,  I  shall 
forget  my  stomach.  Let  me  see,  —  voy ons  le  premier  vers,  — 
dis  is  the  first  verse. 

"  Sound  the  clarion,  strike  the  drum." 

He  rushes  to  the  piano,  and  arranges  the  loose  sheets ;  begins  to  play,  trying 
several  motions  to  the  above  words. 

Enter  Sequence,  r.  h.  door. 

Sequence.  Ah,  there  he  is  composing,  and  composed  !  He 
may  keep  this  little  room ;  for  by  taking  a  trifle  off"  his  rent, 
I  can  have  as  much  of  his  music  as  I  want,  which  I  can 
publish  under  my  own  name,  as  I  have  done  before.  Friend 
Jacques ! 

Jacques  (absorbed).  Dis  is  a  triumph  march,  —  I  must  have 
an  accompaniment  of  eight  horns,  six  trompettes,  five  trom- 
bones, and  four  long  drums  !  I  don't  like  him  myself,  — 
mais,  but  the  publique  like  very  much  noise.  (He  plays  again, 
and  sings),  — 

"  Sound  the  clarion,  strike  the  drum." 

Sequence.    Friend  Jacques ! 
Jacques  (still  singing),  — 

"  Sound  the  clarion,  strike  the  drum." 

Sequence  (louder).   Good  morning,  Mr.  Jacques. 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  323 

Jacques.  Ah  !  c'est  vous,  Monsieur  Sequence,  —  bless  a 
my  soul,  it  am  you  !  You  have  come  by  chance  on  purpose 
to  carry  away  wid  you  the  two  romance  ] 

Sequence.  Why,  not  exactly ;  but  I  can  take  them  at  the 
same  time.  (Aside.)  Now  to  open  the  concei't.  The  fact  is,  I 
have  come  to  say  — 

Jacques.  Oh,  oui,  yes,  —  mais,  — but,  je  suis  bien  fach6,  I 
am  sorry  very  much,  great  deal,  but  I  have  had  no  time,  — 
de  musique  is  not  ready,  —  was  malade  yesterday,  —  very 
sick,  —  bad  of  de  head,  —  0,  very,  —  I  was  oblige  to  a  good 
hour,  to  go  to  my  sleeps. 

Sequence  {pointedly).  I  suppose  then  you  were  playing  after 
you  were  in  bed  1 

Jacques.    Comment  1 

Sequence.    You  were  composing  1 

Jacques.    0  no  !    I  was  snoring  my  nose,  like  one  bassoon. 

Sequence.  Oh  !  then  I  suppose  you  got  up  in  your  sleep, 
and  hammered  away  till  two  this  morning  1  —  hem  ! 

Jacques.    Comment]   (Embarrassed.)  Till  how  many? 

Sequence.    Till  two. 

Jacques.    Den  you  have  hear  ? 

Sequence.    A  most  charming  overture. 

Jacques.   Ah  !  ah  !  den  you  have  found  him  good,  —  eh  1 

Sequence.    It 's  a  masterpiece  !  is  it  Mozart  or  Rossini  1 

Jacques.  Non,  monsieur,  it  was  my  own  !  { Then,  with  a  confi- 
dential air.)  Ecoutez  !  my  opera  is  at  last  finish, — c'est  mon 
ouverture  que  vous  avez  entendue,  —  dat  was  my  overture 
vitch  ycKi  have  hear. 

Sequence.    Really !    (Aside.)    I  could  n't  have  believed  it ! 

Jacques.    I  have  now  no  more  to  do  as  de  finale. 

He  plays  with  his  fingers  while  he  sings,  — 

"  Sound  the  clarion,  strike  the  drum  ! 
On  battle-field  dey  cry,  *  We  come  ! ' " 

Sequence  (aside).  An  opera  !  an  opera  !  Now  if  I  could  but 
manage  it,  it  would  set  all  Dover  by  the  ears.  I  'd  have  it 
produced  in  London.      I  should  be  called  upon  the  stage, 


324  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

praised  by  the  press,  my  portrait  lithographed ;  and  as  I 
walked  in  the  streets,  people  would  point  at  me  and  exclaim, 
"  There  goes  the  celebrated  Sequence  !  "  Zounds  !  it 's  worth 
the  trial ! 

Jacques  (absorbed). 

"  On  battle-field  dey  cry,  '  We  come  ! ' " 
Pram  !     Pram  !    Pram  ! 

Sequence.  It 's  a  pity  that  this  opera,  the  fruit  of  your 
talent  and  your  old  age,  should  be  entirely  lost. 

Jacques.    Lost !     And  what  for  it  shall  be  lost  1 

Sequence.  Because,  my  worthy  friend,  you  can't  have  the 
slightest  hope  ever  to  see  it  performed ;  it 's  without  the  pale 
of  reason. 

Jacques.    Vat  is  dat  pail  1 

Sequence.  You  doubtless  intend  to  present  it  to  one  of 
the  Metropolitan  theatres "?  You  must  be  aware  that  you 
could  not  command  attention. 

Jacques.  Et  pourquoi  que  non  1  —  and  what  for  not  1  Is 
it  because  my  costume  annonce  de  want  and  de  pauvrete  1 

Sequence.  Alas,  my  friend,  it  is  but  too  true ;  it  is  hard, 
—  cruel !  but  believe  me,  your  opera  will  die  with  you. 

Jacques.  How  !  my  opera  shall  die  wid  me  !  Non,  non  ! 
je  te  dit,  it  shall  immortalize  my  name,  for  a  long  time, 
never  no  more  !  My  opera  die  wid  me  !  de  labor  of  my  old 
age  ;  all  gone  away,  for  noting  at  all ! 

Sequence.  There  might,  to  be  sure,  be  a  plan  to  get  it 
performed  ;  but  you  would  n't  listen  to  it. 

Jacques.  I  not  listen,  —  dites  moi,  —  tell  to  me,  —  0, 
parlez,  —  speak  ! 

Sequence.  Well,  then,  since  you  are  willing  to  listen  to 
sound  sense,  I  will  speak,  —  the  true  artist  is  above  being 
caught  by  the  flatteries  of  the  world,  he  is  sufficiently  rec- 
ompensed when  he  hears  his  opera  performed  :  as  to  the  rest, 
it 's  all  fiddle-de-dee  ! 

Jacques,  Yes,  but  what  has  my  opera  to  do  wid  dis  fiddle 
dee] 


MONSIEUR  JACQUES.  325 

Sequexce.  I  am  coming  to  that  directly.  Now,  taking  it 
for  granted  tliat  your  opera  will  never  see  daylight,  —  rather 
than  it  should  be  lost,  I  have  no  objection  to  buy  it  of  you, 
in  the  same  way  that  I  have  bought  the  rest  of  your  music, 
and  I  will  undertake  to  get  it  produced. 

Jacques.    Sell  my  opera  !     0,  jamais  !  never  ! 

Sequence.  0,  very  well  !  Perhaps  when  you  think  over  it 
you'll  change  your  mind.  Good  morning.  (Going, — returns.) 
Friend  Jacques,  I  have  your  interest  more  at  heart  than  you 
think  :  I  am  considered  a  great  composer ;  I  am  rich  ;  an 
opera  from  me  would  be  received  and  produced  at  once. 
Now,  what  does  it  matter  if  it  comes  before  the  public  in  the 
name  of  Jacques,  Timkins,  or  Tomkins  1  You  will  have  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  it ;  you  shall  have  a  front  seat  in 
the  dress  boxes ;  the  theatre  will  be  crammed  ;  the  leader's 
tap  is  heard  ;  an  awful  silence  reigns  around,  until  the  last 
crash  is  buried  in  the  shouts  and  bravos  of  an  astonished  and 
deafened  audience. 

Jacques  (delighted).    And  I  shall  see  all  dat? 

Sequence.  I  have  said  it.  Give  me  but  the  MS.,  and  I  '11 
give  you  a  receipt  for  your  arrear  of  rent,  for  the  various 
other  sums  which  you  owe  me,  and,  further,  a  twenty-pound 
note. 

Jacques.  Twenty  pounds  !  And  I  shall  see  act  my  opera  ] 
Twenty  pounds !  I  shall  be  able  wid  it  to  reward  Vivid  for 
all  dat  he  has  done  for  me. 

Sequence.   Well,  you  agi-ee. 

Jacques  (hesitatingly).  Eh  bien  !  Nous  verrons, — we  shall 
see.  Je  ne  dis  pas  non,  —  I  not  say  no,  —  I  not  say  yes ;  — 
you  are  so  huny. 

Sequence.  Well,  then,  I  consider  the  aff\xir  as  arranged. 
Give  me  your  opera,  and  you  shall  have  the  money.     ( Going 

towards  the  piano. ) 

Jacques  (cjoes  up  and  seizes  the  score).  Vat,  you  will  take  my 
opera,  —  touto  de  suite?  so  very  by  and  by  !  Non,  non  !  pas 
encore,  —  not  yet.  (I'o  his  opera.)  And  shall  you  leave  my 
house  so  soonl  —  for  five  year,  every  day,  every  hour  you 


326  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

have  calm  my  despair !  rest  near  to  me  a  little  longer,  before 
I  say  you  my  last  adieu  ! 

Sequence.  Well,  I  have  no  particular  objection  to  leave  it 
a  little  longer  with  you  ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  I  '11  draw  out 
your  receipt,  and  get  your  twenty  pounds.  (Goes  to  door, — 
returns. )    But  remember,  not  a  word,  —  the  usual  secrecy. 

Jacques.     Oui,  oui  !   yes!     (Sits  at  jjiano,  buried  in  thought.) 

Enter  Vivid,  r.  h.  d. 
Sequence.    Well,  Mr.  Vivid,  have  you  any  money  for  me 

yet] 

Vivid.  I  have  not ;  but  I  hope  very  soon  to  have  some, 
and  then  — 

Sequence.  Very  soon  !  —  the  old  put-off.  I  have  been  too 
patient,  too  liberal ;  but  you  '11  hear  from  me.  Good  morn- 
ing, sir.     Jacques,  remember  !  [Exit  r.  door. 

Vivid.  "  Hear  from  me  "  !  But  I  cannot  think  of  him 
now ;  brighter  visions  fill  my  souL  My  efforts  to  overtake 
her  were  vain. 

Jacques  (absorbed  at  piano).  Twenty  pounds  !  Dat  will  take 
me  to  Palerme,  —  to  Palerme  !  —  dat  I  may  see  her  once 
again  before  to  die  ! 

Vivid  (sees him).  Poor  old  man!  Palerme!  ever  repeating 
that  word  when  his  reason  forsakes  him. 

Jacques.    Twenty  pounds  !  and  la  gloire  ! 

Vivid.  His  visions  are  ever  of  fortune  and  happiness ! 
Jacques,  my  friend  ! 

Jacques  (rising).  Ah,  Vivid, —  c'est  vous,  —  et  bien  1 —  quoi 
de  nouveau'?  vot  news'? 

Vivid.  None  to  comfort.  I  had  hoped  by  the  sale  of  my 
second  volume  to  have  obtained  at  least  the  means  of  allevi- 
ating our  present  distress,  but  the  bookseller  has  refused  to 
purchase. 

Jacques.  Vat  a  rascal  fellow,  ven  de  verses  are  so  hand- 
some '  —  mais,  console  yourself,  mon  ami,  for  I  have  some 
beautiful  news  for  j'^ou. 

Vivid  (aside).  How  unfortunate  !  How  to  ascertain  her 
address  1 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  327 

Jacques.  Qii'avez-vous  done  1  Vot  is  de  matter  1  You  am 
been  for  dis  last  two,  tree  days,  tout  triste,  and  dull,  and 
absently,  —  and  I  am  of  it  beginning  to  be  very  fidgets. 

Vivid.    Nay,  't  is  nothing. 

Jacques.  I  am  sure  dere  is  something  on  de  top  of  your 
head,  —  I  have  remark  it,  —  you  have  always  confide  your 
evils  to  your  old  friend,  —  vat  is  den  now  1  Am  I  no  more 
your  confiance  1  —  am  I  no  more  your  friendship] 

Vivid.  Banish  such  thoughts  :  you  are  my  only  friend  ! 
I  have  striven  to  hide  all  from  you,  but  't  is  vain  !  My  brain 
burns  while  I  confess  my  insanity. 

Jacques.  You  make  me  frightful,  —  depechez  done,  —  tell 
to  me  vat  is  it. 

Vivid.    I  love  !  without  hope,  —  madly  love  ! 

Jacques.    Quel  horreur  !     You  love  1     Malheureux  ! 

Vivid.  0,  if  you  knew  how  beautiful  she  is  !  Twenty 
times  have  I  met  her  in  my  solitary  walks ;  her  eyes  have 
encountered  mine,  —  I  have  deeply  drank  of  their  fascina- 
tion. Yesterday,  while  roaming  despondingly  on  the  beach, 
my  soul  filled  with  visions  of  her  elysian  brightness,  a  music 
outrivalling  the  music  of  the  blest  arrested  me.  Judge,  0, 
judge  my  rapture  !  those  verses  were  mine,  —  mine  !  Drunk 
with  ecstasy,  I  exclaimed,  "  Happy  the  poet  thus  able  to  dim 
that  beaming  eye  with  the  holy  tear  of  sympathy  !  " 

Jacques.    He  also  de  victim  of  love  !    {Sinks  into  arevery.) 

Vivid.  Judge  my  astonishment  when,  bringing  your  finale, 
I  found  in  this  room  my  incognita  in  conversation  with 
Sequence.     You  do  not  listen  ! 

Jacques.  Love  !  0  my  friend,  beware  of  it.  And  more, 
for  de  grande  dame,  de  rank  lady.  0  Vivid,  prenez  garde. 
I  have  never  speaks  you  of  moi-meme,  —  of  myself,  —  of  de 
days  dat  are  over.  You  avc  always  seen  me  poor  and  old, 
and  you  ave  takes  me  by  de  hand  widout  to  know  me  ;  it  is 
time  dat  you  shall  be  more  acquaint  vid  do  histoirc  of  your 
poor  old  friend.  Sit  yourself  near  to  me.  (Vitid  brim/s  forward 
two  chairs;  they  sit.)  It  is  a  triste  histoire,  — a  story  that  is 
melancholick ;  but  it  will  be  lesson  to  you. 


328  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Vivid.  Nay,  if  it  pain  you,  —  (He  draws  his  chair  nearer  to 
Jacques.) 

Jacques  {qfier  having  seemed  to  collect  his  thoughts).  I  was  not  born 
to  ave  de  happiness,  for  my  moder  die  ven  I  vas  a  vary  little 
boy,  —  good  vile  ago.  I  ave  evince  de  talent  for  de  musique, 
and  my  fader  encourage  it ;  at  nineteen  year  old  he  die  also, 

—  vidout  to  leave  me  much  money.  An  opportunity  offer 
himself  to  go  into  Italy,  and  I  take  hold  of  him.  I  go  to 
Palerme.  Palermo  !  Palermo  !  Ah  !  my  brain  burn  only  at 
de  souvenir  of  dat  cite. 

Vivid.    Compose  yourself,  Jacques. 

Jacques.  It  was  at  dis  time  I  did  acquaintance  make  vid 
de  Count  San  Marco,  —  man  proud  and  rempli  d'hauteur. 
He  appoint  me  de  teacher  of  his  daughter.  0  my  friend, 
how  was  she  different  to  her  fader  !  Noting  so  beautiful  never 
struck  my  eye  ;  she  vas  von  ange  !  she  vas  de  beau  ideal ! 
you  cannot  see  one  times  vidout  to  love  her ;  et  moi,  and 
myself,  while  six  months  I  am  go  every  day  to  give  her  de 
lesson  !  I  do  not  know  how  it  vas,  because  my  passion  made 
me  almost  mad !  mais,  one  night  we  were  alone,  —  I  found 
myself  at  her  foots,  —  I  confess  my  love,  —  she  did  not  seeks 
to  fly  away  from  me  ;  for  Heaven  —  de  bon  Dieu  —  have 
mark  our  two  souls  for  de  love  and  de  unite. 

Vivid.    You  were  happy? 

Jacques.    Happy  !  I  vas  almost  to  mad.     Mais,  one  night 

—  0  my  friend  !  one  dreadful  night  —  a  knock  came  to  my 
door  ;  I  say  to  de  knocker  "  Entrez  !  "  A  female  wid  a  veil 
present  herself,  —  it  was  Mariana  !  "  Jacques,"  she  say  to 
me,  "  my  fader  vish  to  sacrifice  me  to  a  marriage  detestable  ; 
but  I  am  Italienne,  and  I  love  you.  Let  us  this  night  fly 
avay,  —  a  vaisseau  go  from  hei-e  to  England,  —  come,  — - 
viens  !  "  How  happy  dat  I  vas  you  can  tink  ;  we  went  to 
part,  —  we  reach  de  sheeps,  —  de  signal  to  depart  is  give,  — 
I  press  Mariana  to  my  heart,  —  de  tear  of  joy  trickle  in  her 
eye.  We  sail  for  two  days  ;  but  vat  is  den  dat  sheep  dat  cut 
de  wave  and  ride  wid  speed  behind  us  1  {He  rises  and  seems  to  show 
Vivid  the  sea,  which  he  imagines  he  sees  before  him,  and  towards  which  he 


MONSIEUR  JACQUES.  329 

moves  his  hand,  imitating  the  motion  of  a  vessel.)  Tiens,  Vivid  !  see  you 
her,  as  she  gUde  on  de  sea  1  She  make  approach  !  she  is  hei'e, 
—  la  Yoila  !  (Vivid  makes  him  sit.  A  pause.)  Mariana  make  a 
shriek  and  fell  senseless.  It  is  de  count,  —  it  is  her  fader, 
and  his  soldats  !  Dey  arrest  me  in  de  name  of  de  grand 
due,  —  dey  tie  my  hand,  —  dey  carry  me  back  to  Palerme, 
and  trow  me  in  de  prison.  I  am  try,  —  I  am  accuse  of  de 
seduction,  —  I  am  condemn,  —  you  understand,  Vivid,  —  con- 
demn, —  to  de  galleys,  —  to  de  galleys  ! 

Vivid.  Gracious  powers  !  And  how  did  you  escape  1 
Jacques.  One  night  de  door  of  my  prison  opens ;  somebody 
seize  my  arm  and  conduct  me  through  the  dark,  —  place  in 
my  hand  a  purse  and  a  lettei',  —  cette  lettre,  mon  ami,  this 
letter.  ( Takes  letter  out  and  reads.)  "  Go,  —  fly  avay  !  I  will  be 
upon  your  heel  as  soon  as  I  am  able."  Eh  bien,  I  was  trans- 
port avay.  Here  is  de  gap  in  my  histoire,  —  dere  is  tree 
year  of  which  I  know  noting.  I  remember,  dey  puts  great 
deal  vater  on  my  head,  —  puis,  one  morning,  dey  tell  me  to 
go  away  from  de  hopital  where  I  ave  been.  I  vas  alone  in  de 
vorld ;  I  struggle  on  to  give  de  few  lessons,  ven  Heaven  send 
you  near  to  me.  0  my  friend,  the  bon  Dieu  was  good,  for 
vidout  you  I  should  be  dead.  {He  lays  his  head  on  Yivid's  shoul- 
der, who  dashes  away  a  tear.) 

Viviu  (ajler  a  short  pause).  And  yovi  have  never  since  heard 
of  your  Mariana] 

Jacques.  Jamais  !  Never  !  While  I  was  jeune  homme,  — 
a  young  man,  —  I  expect  her  as  a  wife.  Mais  a  present,  I 
look  to  see  her  as  a  dear  friend,  a  sister ;  for  she  is  now  old 
like  me.  But  I  know  it,  —  she  vill  come  !  she  vill  come  ! 
Attendez  ! 

He  goes  up  and  watches  at  window,  and  looks  anxiously  out. 

Vivid.  And  this  is  what  I  am  to  expect,  —  affection  with- 
out hope  !  Mariana  loved  him  ;  that  tliought  has  been  the 
balm  to  heal  the  lacerated  heart.  I  must  cease  to  think  of 
her,  —  she  can  never  be  mine.  Absence  is  my  only  safe- 
guard. The  situation  of  clerk  to  a  vessel  for  South  America 
14 


330  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

has  been  ofifered  to  me.  It  will  leave  the  docks  to-morrow  ; 
what  if  I  accept  it  ?  (Timts  his  eyes  towards  Jacques.)  And  can  I 
then  abandon  him  ]     0  no  :  never  ! 

Enter  Antonio,  r.  h.  door. 
Again  ! 

Antonio.    This  is  the  room.     Does  Monsieur  Jacques  Hve 

here? 

Jacques.    C'est  raoi,  monsieur,  —  it  is  me.    {Coming forward.) 

Antonio.  You  !  (Crossing  to  centre,  and  looking  at  him  with  interest.) 
Monsieur  Jacques,  my  mistress  requests  to  speak  with  you. 

Jacques.    To  me  1 

Antonio.  She  wishes  to  know  if  it  will  be  convenient  for 
you  to  see  her  to-day. 

Jacques.  Oui,  yes,  certainement ;  whenever  she  likes  to 
please. 

Antonio.  Then  she  will  come  to-day,  —  she  will  come  / 
Heaven  bless  you,  sir !  [He  bows,  and  exits  at  k.  h.  dow. 

Jacques.  Those  words,  —  dat  man.  I  have  seen  him  some- 
where. 

Vivid.  He  is  the  servant  of  my  incognita.  Are  you  aware 
that  this  young  lady  has  been  here  once  before  to-day  ] 

Jacques.  Vraiment !  c'est  bizarre  !  Very  strange,  or  rader, 
very  natural ;  she  ave  hear  of  my  musique,  and  she  come  to 
take  de  lesson. 

Vivid.    Possibly. 

Jacques  (gayly).  In  all  de  case,  my  dear  boy,  dis  is  not  but 
some  good  for  me.  Mon  Dieu  !  vat  a  figuration  I  look  !  You 
must  lend  me  a  coat,  dat  little  chesnut  coat. 

Vivid.  Willingly  ;  I  '11  fetch  it  for  you.  You  will  soon 
learn  who  she  is.  (Aside.)  Still  will  I  keep  my  resolve  and 
banish  myself  forever.  [Exit  door,  l.  h. 

Jacques.  Quel  malheur  !  vat  misfortime  !  dat  de  blanch- 
isseuse  —  de  washwoman  —  ave  not  brought  home  my  cravat. 
It  is  always  so ;  ven  you  not  vant  den  dey  come,  and  on  de 
grande  occasion  dey  stops  avay.  To  be  sure,  I  ave  only 
two  ;  so  ven  one  is  Arj  de  oder  is  wets.  Never  mind  !  ( Goes 
about  stage,  dusting  chairs,  etc.,  with  his  handkerchief.)    Dis  visite  ave 


MONSIEUR  JACQUES.  -  331 

produce  a  singular  effect  upon  me.  Suppose  she  should  be 
riche,  as  Vivid  say,  I  shall  perhaps  be  able,  par  sa  protection, 
to  produce  my  opera.  0,  quelle  joie  it  vill  be  to  see  my 
opera  perform  !     No,  I  will  not  never  part  with  him  ! 

Entei-  Sequence,  k.  h.  dooi: 

Sequence.  I  have  n't  been  long,  you  see.  Now,  touchipg 
the  overture  I  made  to  you  this  morning. 

Jacques.    Your  overture  ?  it  is  my  overture. 

Sequence.  I  mean  the  proposal  which  you  agreed  to.  I 
have  brought  you  the  money,  and  a  receipt  in  full  of  all 
demands. 

Jacques.  Ma  foi !  it  is  true  ;  a  fine  note,  new  all  over,  and 
a  receipt. 

Sequence.  Take  them,  my  friend,  they  are  yours ;  and 
though  I  have  the  reputation,  you  will  be  a  man  of  note, 

Jacques.  Non,  gi-ande  merci !  I  shall  not  take  them, 
parceque,  becose  I  ave  change  my  mind. 

Sequence.  What,  you  want  more  money,  I  suppose,  — 
crescendo  in  your  demand  1 

Jacques.  Non,  I  won't  want  none.  I  vont  let  my  opera- 
go  avay  at  all. 

Sequence.  Mr.  Jacques,  be  careful  !  I  am  not  a  man  to 
be  trifled  with.  Remember,  you  owe  me  three  quarters'  rent, 
and  it  is  in  my  power  to  turn  you  into  the  street. 

Jacques.    I  know  it. 

Sequence.  To  seize  your  goods  and  sell  them  under  your 
nose. 

Jacques.  I  know  it.  C'est  vrai,  it  is  true,  you  can  do  all 
dis,  but  you  cannot  tear  from  me  my  opera  from  under  my 
nose.  You  may  throw  me  avay  out  of  your  house,  —  ch 
bien,  I  must  looks  anoder.  I  shall  not  complain  so  long  as 
remain  me  my  opera  and  my  piano. 

Sequence.    I  shall  sell  that  with  the  rest  of  the  rubbish. 

Jacques.  You  will  sell  my  piano!  Qu'avez  vous  dit  \ii1 
What  you  have  say  ?  sell  my  piano  !  You  do  not  know  d:it 
Binco  six  year  it  has  support  me  in  all  do  miscre  do  most 


332  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

afFreuse,  — when  for  day  to  day  I  ave  noting  to  eat.  Ah  !  dat 
astonish  you,  —  you  dat  ave  de  superfluity,  while  de  pauvre 
musician  often  vant  a  morsel  of  bread.  Dat  astonish  you  ! 
In  de  midst  of  dat  vant,  dat  misere,  and  dat  hungry,  I  have 
forgot  all,  all,  —  becose  of  my  piano,  —  and  you  have  de 
heart  to  sell  if?  Take  my  bed,  —  sell  him;  but  leave  to 
me,  —  0,  leave  to  me  my  piano  ! 

Sequence.    Pooh,  nonsense  !  it  shall  go  !  (Going  towards  piano.) 

Jacques.  I  am  old  and  feeble,  but  Heaven  will  give  power 
to  this  aged  arm ;  but  should  that  arm  fail  to  me,  it  must  dat 
day  kill  me;  but  I  vill  never  lose  my  hold.  (He  rushes  to  the 
piano  in  despair,  sinks  exhausted,  presses  his  head  with  his  hands,  looks  round 
wildly.)     Ah,  where  I  am  ]  in  Palerme  !    Hush  ! 

Sequence.    In  one  of  his  paroxysms  again. 

Jacques.  (The  orchestra  plays  the  air  of  the  piece ;  he  listens.)  It  is 
a  sheep  dat  glide  upon  de  water.  She  is  come  at  last,  —  I 
fly  to  see  her,  —  Mariana!  Mariana!   (Be  rushes  off,  ti.  n.  door.) 

Enter  Vivid,  with  a  coat,  l.  h.  door. 

Vivid  (not  seeing  Sequence).  Here,  my  friend,  is  the  —  I 
beg  pardon,  I  have  brought  poor  Mr.  Jacques  — 

Sequence.    Some  money  1 

Vivid.  No,  a  coat  which  I  promised  to  lend  him.  (Places  it 
on  a  chair.) 

Sequence.  Very  strange  that  you  can  afford  to  lend  coats, 
and  not  pay  me  your  rent.  This  day  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  either  to  have  my  money  or  you  both  go. 

Vivid.  Turn  the  old  man  out  ?  Impossible  !  You  do  but 
jest ;  such  a  procedure  — 

Sequence.  I  dare  say  you  '11  make  a  speech  about  human- 
ity, and  then  talk  very  poetically  about  pity.  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  understand  it.  A  man  can't  understand  everything. 
I  am  contented  to  be  acquainted  with  the  sound  of  music  and 
money. 

Vivid.  Poor  Jacques  !  —  without  a  home,  —  left  to  perish  ! 
—  to  be  cast  upon  the  cold  world,  —  and  feeble.  How  much 
is  the  old  man  indebted  to  you  1 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  333 

Sequexce.    Fifteen  pounds. 

YiviD  (aside).  Fifteen  pounds  !  and  they  oflFered  to  advance 
me  thirty ;  in  accepting  it  I  save  my  poor  friend,  for  some 
time  at  least,  from  want.  (To  Sequence,  hawjhtUy.)  Mr.  Se- 
quence, you  will  not  dispose  of  a  single  article. 

Sequence.    And  who,  pray,  will  prevent  me  1 

Vivid.  I !  Before  the  evening  you  shall  be  paid  to  the 
uttermost  farthing. 

Sequence.  The  devil !  and  I  shall  lose  the  opera.  (Aside.) 
But  you  have  so  often  promised,  I  would  advise  you  to  keep 
your  word. 

Vivid.    Leave  the  room  ! 

Sequence.  Turned  out  of  the  orchestra  !  Take  care,  sii', 
you  heep  your  time  ! 

Vivid.  Begone  !  (Exit  Sequence,  r.  h.  door.)  And  now  to 
perform  a  last  duty  to  poor  Jacques.  It  is  an  act  which  will 
not  only  solace  him,  but  will  enable  me  to  drive  her  loved 
image  from  my  mind.  She  will  soon  be  here;  I  dare  not  see 
her  more,  or  farewell  to  my  resolution  ! 

Nina  (without,  r).  Remain  without,  Antonio.  He  will  doubt- 
less soon  return. 

Vivid.    Heavens  !    she  here  1     Escape,  then,  is  impossible. 

{Goes  up.) 

Enter  Nina,  r.  h.  d. 

Nina  (looking  anxiously  round).  Everything  in  this  wTetched 
apartment  interests  me.  (Sees  Vivid.)  His  friend  !  I  am  de- 
lighted to  find  you  alone,  Mr.  Vivid ;  I  am  anxious  to  have 
some  conversation  respecting  your  friend.  Monsieur  Jacques. 

Vivid.    Of  Jacques  ! 

Nina.  A  circumstance  of  importance  has  induced  this 
visit.  Is  it  not  to  be  feared  that  any  unexpected  news  may 
be  too  much  for  his  reason  ] 

Vivid.  The  evident  interest  you  take  in  my  friend,  —  par- 
don, dear  madam,  my  curiosity,  but  it  is  dictated  alone  by 
the  deepest  sympathy  with  the  misery  and  poverty  which  he 
endures  ;  at  his  age  to  be  reduced  to  the  most  frightful 
privations  — 


334  PUBLIC  AND   PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Nina.  Gracious  heavens  !  is  it  possible  1  (Agitated.)  Is  it 
come  to  this  t     Antonio  !  Antonio  ! 

Enter  Antonio,  k.  h.  d. 

(She  whispers  to  Antonio,  who  exits,  r.  h.  d.,  hastily.)  Be  satisfied, 
sir  ;  I  have  both  the  will  and  means  of  serving  your  friend. 

Vivid.  It  is  kind,  very  kind,  madam  ;  but  /  shall  this  day 
have  the  means,  —  Heaven  has  unexpectedly  sent  them. 

Nina.  Your  noble,  your  disinterested  conduct  does  honor 
to  your  nature. 

Vivid.  My  conduct !  (Aside.)  Now  is  the  moment,  or  all  is 
lost.  I  will  fly  to  the  captain,  secure  my  papers,  and  pay 
this  heartless  landlord.  (To  Nina.)  Pardon,  madam,  but  an 
affair  of  importance  obliges  me  thus  rudely  to  leave  you. 
(Looks  off.)  'T  is  Jacques  !  I  will  leave  you  :  farewell,  madam, 
(aside)  forever.  [Exit,  r.  h.  d. 

Nina.  I  dread  to  see  him.  Heaven  grant  me  fortitude  for 
the  melancholy  task.  And  should  all  effort  to  save  him  prove 
unavailing,  I  will  consign  myself  to  the  holy  calm  of  a  con- 
vent's walls,  and  forget  forever  my  mountain  home. 

SONG.  —  Palermo's  Bell. 

When  last  I  heard  Palermo's  bell, 

How  deep  and  hallowed  was  its  power ! 
How  sweet  each  tone  the  tale  did  tell, 
Of  bridal  joy  and  death's  dark  hour. 

But  forced  to  roam 

From  kindred  home, 
I  sighed  a  last  farewell 

To  sunlit  bower, 

And  golden  flower, 
And  dear  Palermo's  bell ! 

With  listless  eye  that  land  is  seen ; 

For  far-off  lands  my  bosom  burned, 
Yet  sighed  to  leave  that  long-loved  scene, 

Still  early  memory  fondly  turned  ; 


MONSIEUR  JACQUES.  335 

But  visions  bright 

As  the  fire-fly's  light, 

Of  hope  and  peace  do  tell ; 

For  o'er  each  vale, 

And  hill  and  dale, 

Shall  sound  Palermo's  bell ! 

At  the  end  of  song  Nina  retires  up,  R.  H. 

Enter  Jacques,  r.  h.  d. 

Jacques  {not  seeing  her).    Again  I  come  back  alone.    (Sees  coat.) 

Ah,  ah,  de  coat  of  Vivid  !    Dis  lady  vill  soon  come.    {He  is  about 

to  take  ojf  his  coat,  ichen  he  sees  Nina.)     Ah,  mon  Dieu  !    la   voila  ! 

dere  she  am  !    and  I  ave  not  ave  time  to  —  mille  pardons, 

madam,  to  receive  you  in  dis  neglige  of  de  morning. 

Nina.    It  is  I  rather  who  should  apologize  for  this  intrusion. 

Jacques.    Comment,  madam  !    {Aside.)    What  a  interest  she 

are  !     Give  yourself  the  pain  to  sits  down.    (He  hands  Nina  a 

chair  with  a  broken  seat,  but  instantly  changes  it.)    Maintenant,  will  you. 

descend  to  instruct  me  of  de  motive  of  your  visit  1 

Enter  Antonio,  r.  h.  d.,  with  a  tray  covered,  decanter,  glasses,  etc.,  which 

he  lays  on  the  table. 

Nina.  The  business  which  brought  me  here  will  oblige  me 
to  reinain  with  you  a  very  long  time. 

Jacques.  Mais,  —  tant  mieux,  —  all  de  better,  madam. 
Vat  a  sweet  eye  !    (Aside.) 

Nina.  And  fearful  that,  did  I  not  come  early,  I  might  not 
find  you  at  home,  I  did  not  take  breakfast. 

Jacques.  0,  dat  always  bad;  you  should  not — jamais, 
never  go  vidout  your  breakfast,  it  is  always  my  system. 

Nina.  I  have  therefore  taken  the  liberty  to  desire  my 
servant'  to  bring  it  here.  I  hope  you  will  not  only  pardon 
me,  but  will  partake  of  it  with  me. 

Jacques.    Madame  ! 

Nina.  We  can,  during  the  time,  talk  upon  the  subject  that 
brought  me  here.  (To  Antonio,  who  has  arranged  the  table.)  Bring 
the  table  down. 

Jacques.    I  shall  obey  you.    (Going  to  the  table.) 

Antonio.  Pardon  me,  sir,  that  is  ?/iy  duty.  (Brings  the  tabU 
down.) 


336  PUBLIC   AND   PARLOR  DIALOGUES. 

Jacques  {who  has  pulled  up  one  of  his  stockings,  and  buckled  his  breeches), 
Mon  Dieu  !  Madame,  I  am  quite  coufuse.  (Aside.)  Vat  a  pity 
it  is  not  to  be  better  decorated. 

Nina.    Pray  be  seated.     Leave  us,  my  good  Antonio. 

[Exit  Antonio,  e.  h.  d. 

Jacques.  It  is  only  to  obey  you,  madame,  for  I  am  already 
taking  something,  and  I  am  no  great  appetite.  {Aside.)  What 
a  large  fibs  !  (He  looks  at  the  table  with  voraciousness.  Nina  sits  and  eats 
a  little,  to  encourage  him.  Aside.)  If  dat  poor  Vivid  was  here,  he 
vould  also  ave  a  breakfast ;  but  he  is  always  out  of  de  vay 
ven  any  ting  extraordinaire  happen.  (He  eats  ravenously.  Nina 
Jills  his  glass  with  ivine.)  You  are  too  good,  madame.  (Aside.) 
Vine  !  vat  it  is  a  long  time  dat  I  ave  it  not  taste  !  (Drinks.) 
Dis  to  very  good  cotelette  !  a  capital  shop  !  very  handsome 
vine  !  I  assure  you,  madame,  dat  I  do  not  ave  vine  upon  my 
table  alvays,  —  tings  are  not  in  a  flourish  wid  me. 

Nina.  And  have  you  not  tried  to  better  your  circum- 
stances 1 

Jacques.  Very  often,  —  several  times.  Ven  I  ave  present 
myself  to  ave  de  pupils,  dey  say,   "  Vous  etes  trop  vieux," 

—  "  You  are  too  old."  Alors,  den,  I  go  to  de  maison  of  de 
poor  old  peoples,  —  what  you  call  de  working-hoase,  —  and 
dey  say,   "Vous  etes  trop  jeune," — "You  are  too  young," 

—  so  I  find  dat  I  am  of  an  age  most  embarrassing.  What  a 
magnifiqne  pat^,  —  what  a  capital  lark  !  Now,  madame,  am 
I  able  to  know  vat  ave  procure  to  me  de  honneur  of  your 
visite  ] 

Nina  (aside).  Heavens  !  How  to  break  it  to  him  !  You 
must  know  that  I  am  an  entire  stranger  here.  'T  is  now  two 
months  since  I  quitted  Italy. 

Jacques  {moving  suddenly).    Ital}'!     You  came  from  Sicily? 

Nina.  A  passion  for  music  predominated  from  my  earliest 
youth  ;  I  employed  the  most  distinguished  masters,  and  was 
making  rapid  progress,  when  circumstances  obliged  me  to 
abandon  my  studies  and  come  to  England.  This  morning 
chance  conducted  me  here  ;  some  pieces  of  music  which  I 
happened  to  see  on  your  piano  gave  me  the  highest  opinion 
of  your  genius. 


MONSIEUR  JACQUES.  337 

Jacques.    Ah,  madanie,  your  compliments  flattre  me. 

Nina.    I  would  become  your  pupil.    (Rising.) 

Jacques.  It  shall  give  me  pleasure  to  teach  to  you  as  well 
my  poor  abilitie  shall  permit.  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I 
cannot  help  to  take  an  interest  in  you.  Dites  moi,  ma  chere 
madame  !  vidout  doubt  you  ave  already  compose  several  tings  1 

Nina.  As  yet  I  have  not  attempted  anything  beyond  the 
merest  trifles ;  yet  there  is  one  I  should  like  you  to  hear,  but 
that  I  fear  to  take  up  your  time. 

Jacques.  Comment  done !  it  will  be  to  me  a  great  happi- 
ness.    I  only  regret  dat  my  piano  is  such  a  poor  box. 

Nina  (ci-ossing).  I  tremble  !  The  subject  of  the  romance 
is  founded  upon  fact ;  it  really  happened.  The  scene  is 
Sicily. 

Jacques  (agitated).  En  Sicile  !  (He  regains  his  composure,  and 
draws  chair  close  to  the  piano. ) 

Nina.    Listen  !    (She  watches  all  his  emotions.) 

KOMANCE.  — Nina. 

A  noble's  daughter  loved  to  madness 
A  stranger  youth  of  low  degree  ; 

They  wed  (but  't  is  a  tale  of  sadness 
Told  throughout  all  Sicily),  — 

Jacques  (with  surprise).   Told  throughout  all  Sicily? 

Nina.         The  sire  pursues  the  truant  maiden, 

And  soon,  alas  I  his  step  they  hear ; 
The  youth  is  cast,  with  irons  laden, 
Within  Palermo's  dungeons  drear. 

Jacques  (starting).    Within  Palermo's  dungeons  drear. 

Nina.  Still  cheer  thee,  youth  ; 

/She  watches  thee  ! 
Believe  her  truth. 
She  '11  set  thee  free. 

Jacques  (looking  fixedly  upon  Nina).    Vat  means  dis  romance  1 
Nina.    Listen  to  the  second  verse, 

T 


338  PUBLIC  AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Dread  siirrounds  him,  gloom  is  o'er  him, 

Life  to  him  no  more  is  dear ; 
When  soon  a  mantled  form  before  him 

Stands  within  his  dungeon  di'ear. 

Jacques  {kis  agitation  has  gradually  increased).  She  stands  within 
his  dungeon  drear  ? 

Nina.    "  Fly  !  thy  path  is  free  from  danger," 
Cries  the  maid,  nor  cries  in  vain ; 
"  This  purse,  this  letter,  take ;  in  stranger 
Climes  we  soon  shall  meet  again  ! " 

Jacques.    We  soon  shall  meet  again?    (Nina,  as  i/ to  calm  his 
agitation,  turns  the  song  gayly. ) 

Nina.  Now  cheer  thee,  youth ; 

She  watches  thee  ! 
Believe  her  truth. 
She  sets  thee  free  ! 

Jacques  (seizing  the  arm  o/'Nina,  draws  from  his  bosom  the  letter).  Dis 
letter,  —  look  !  see  !  it  is  here,  here  !  Cette  histoire,  —  dis 
histoire,  —  it  is  mi7ie  !  —  de  prisonier  is  me,  —  de  daughter  of 
de  noble  is  Mariana  !  You  know  her  1  Speak  !  speak  !  it  is 
Mariana  who  ave  send  you  to  me,  n'est-ce-pas  ]  She  vill  come 
herself  1  0,  say  me,  —  say  me,  dat  she  vill  come  !  She  has 
me  promise.  0,  speak  !  You  reply  not,  —  you  turn  avay 
your  eye  !  One  word,  —  one  single  word  1  Ven  I  shall  see 
her  again  I 

Nina  (impressively).    Never  !  never  ! 

Jacques.  Nevair  !  0  mon  Dieu  !  Nevair  !  Den  she  is  — 
tell  me  not —  (Puts  his  hand  before  her  mouth.)  Dead  !  Morte !  (His 
head  sinks  on  his  bosom,  his  frenzy  returns.)  Hark  !  do  not  you  hear 
de  sound  of  de  bell '?  Stand  avay  !  do  not  make  so  much 
noise ;  how  can  she  die  if  you  talk  1  (He  looks  up  silently,  as  if  in 
prayer. ) 

Nina.    Nay,  be  calm  ;  hear  me,  I  entreat. 

Jacques.  Mariana  comes  to  me  no  more.  Vat  I  have  to 
do  here  now  but  to  die  ]      (He  weeps,  his  hands  clasping  his  face.) 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  339 

NiXA.    His  reason  returns. 

Jacques.    Dead  !  vidout  to  have  seek  to  see  me  only  once. 

(He  tears  the  letter,  which  he  throws  doicn. ) 

Nina.  Accuse  her  not ;  she  would  have  forsaken  fortune, 
rank,  parents,  country ;  but  after  your  flight  she  was  closely 
guarded,  and  her  life  melted  away  in  tears. 

JaCQ^JES  (picks  up  the  pieces  of  the  letter  and  carefully  puts  them  into  his 
bosom).  Pardon  to  her  memory.  Pauvi'e  Mariana  !  she  vas 
den  very  unhappy. 

Nina.  0  yes,  —  and  loved  you.  She  at  length  succeeded 
in  obtaining  the  means  of  flight ;  all  obstacles  were  removed — • 

Jacques.    And  what  prevent  her  1 

Nixa.    She  died  giving  birth  to  a  daughter. 

Jacques.  Grand  Dieu  !  and  dis  daughter,  —  where,  where 
is  she  1  where  is  my  daughter,  my  child  1 

Nina.     My  father  !    (She  falls  on  her  knees  before  Jacques.) 

Jacques.    C'est  toi  !     0  yes,  my  heart  tell  me,  —  ma  fille  ! 

my   child!      Ma   chere   enfant!     (lie  presses  her  in  his  arms.)     Ah] 

if  you  know  how  you  look  like  her.  Ah  !  now  I  not  more 
wish  to  die. 

Nina.    Calm  yourself,  my  father. 

Jacques  (raising  her  up).  My  child,  —  my  daughter, — mine. 
Ah,  how  she  is  tall,  —  how  she  is  beautiful  !  0,  if  dis  shall 
be  an  illusion.  Ma  pauvre  tete  is  so  weak.  I  am  not  derange, 
not  mad,  —  am  1 1 

Nina.  No,  no,  dear  father !  it  is  indeed  your  child,  who 
will  never  again  leave  you,  who  will  soothe  your  gi'ief  into 
happiness. 

Jacques.    Oui,  yes  !    (Slowly.)    We  will  yet  speak  of  her  ! 

Nina.  And  now,  away  with  want,  away  with  poverty  ! 
The  Count  is  no  more !  /  am  rich,  —  you  are  rich,  my 
father. 

Jacques.  Riche  !  can  it  be  1  Eh  bion,  tant  mieux  !  not  for 
me,  but  for  him  who  has  support  and  suff'cr  wid  me,  —  my 
good  Vivid  !  O,  he  is  a  good  boy  !  You  do  not  know  what 
a  gen^rosite  —  what  a  fine  heart  he  has  ;  no  son  could  not 
have  do  no  more  for  me  !     0,  how  he  will  be  astonishment ! 


340  PUBLIC   AND  PARLOR   DIALOGUES. 

Filter  Sequence,  with  a  letter,  k.  h.  door. 

Sequence.  My  dear  Mr.  Jacques,  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  — 

Jacques.  Dat  I  must  go  away  from  your  lodgment.  0, 
very  veil,  I  shall  leave  your  garret  room. 

Sequence.  On  the  contrary,  I  've  come  to  say  that  you 
may  stay  as  long  as  you  please.     I  'm  paid  ! 

Jacques.    You  are  paid  ?    (Looks  at'NisA.) 

Sequence.  This  letter  will  explain.  (Reads.)  "Enclosed  is 
the  amount  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Jacques  stands  indebted  to 
you ;  I  will  call  and  pay  your  demand  on  myself  in  an  hour. 
I  sail  for  South  America  to-morrow,  and  —  " 

Enter  Vivid,  k  h.  door. 

Jacques  (running  to  him,  and  pressing  his  hand).  Ah,  mon  ami  !  let 
me  shake  you. 

Vivid  (aside).    She  still  here  ! 

Jacques.  How  ave  you  got  all  dat  money  1  Mais  ce  n'est 
rien  ;  tanks  to  dis  angel,  I  ave  no  vant  of  noting  !  Dis 
beautiful  lady,  —  dis  incognita  dat  you  speak  to  me  about, 
—  she  is  ma  fiUe,  my  daughter,  my  child  ! 

Vivid  (aside).   His  daughter  ! 

Sequence  (r.).   His  daughter !    There  goes  his  head  again  ! 

Nina  (taMngthe  tec/ o/ Jacques).  He  speaks  the  truth!  I 
am  his  daughter. 

Sequence.    Is  it  possible  % 

Jacques.  Yes,  it  is  possible,  Mr.  Lodging-house.  (To  Vivid.) 
Now  we  go  all  three  to  be  happy. 

Vivid.    Alas  !  it  is  now  too  late. 

Jacques.  Comment !  Too  late  !  It  never  shall  be  too 
late  !  And  could  you  tink  to  leave  me,  when  you  know  that 
Mr.  Sequence  was  go  to  turn  me  out  of  his  house  1 

Sequence.  Bless  you,  I  respect  genius  too  much,  —  I  am 
too  fond  of  music. 

Jacques.  Oui  !  —  yes,  so  fond  of  de  musique  that  you  viU 
take  away  my  piano]  (To  Vivid.)  And  you  have  sacrifie 
everyting  for  me. 


MONSIEUR   JACQUES.  341 

Vivid.  I  see  you  rich  and  happy :  I  have  now  no  tie  to 
bind  me  here. 

Jacques.  But  it  is  now  my  turn  to  make  you  happy.  Vat, 
you  ave  no  tie  to  bind  you  here  1  Ven  I  shall  be  older,  who 
shall  support  me,  eh  1  Has  she  de  strength,  —  dat  dear 
child  dere  ]  Vid  dis  arm  (showing  his  left)  I  can  lean  on  her  ; 
mais,  but  dis  toder  arm  ?  Ah  !  tu  n'as  plus  rien  a  faire  ici  ] 
you  ave  no  more  tie  to  bind  you  here  1 

NiXA.    Mr.  Vivid,  you  must  not  leave  us,  you  will  not  go ! 

Y Vf ID  (taking  3 xcQ.VE.s's  right  arm).  Dearest  lady,  if  you  com- 
mand — 

Jacques.  Ah,  voyez  vous  9a  !  how  he  is  obedient  to  her  ! 
I  remember,  —  mais,  motus,  —  I  shall  say  noting  now,  —  but 
by  aud  by,  presently,  I  shall  speak  vid  both  of  you.  (To 
Sequence.)  Monsieur  Sequence,  you  perceive  I  am  not  dis- 
pose to  sell  my  opera,  becose  for  you  see  I  am  riche  ! 

Sequence.  I  am  delighted  at  your  prosperity  ;  I  am  sure  I 
hope  your  opera  will  succeed.  (Aside.)  I  '11  go  the  first  night 
and  hiss  it. 

Jacques.  Yes,  I  am  riche.  (Looking  at  Nina  and  Vivid,  then 
comes foi-ward.)  To-night,  in  the  midst  of  my  sorrow,  I  tought 
I  hear  from  every  side  voices  cry,  "  Brava  !  —  "  tr^s  bien  !  " 
Mais,  malheureusement !  my  head  ave  been  some  time  derang^, 
and  perhaps  I  ave  only  suppose  dese  tings.  Am  I  mad  1  Did 
I  dream  dat  you  was  please  and  satisfy  ]  0,  assure  me  dat 
it  vas  not  the  ravings  of  — 

POOR   monsieur  JACQUES. 


COSTUMES. 

Monsieur  Jacques.  —  Old  dark  smalls,  gray  worsted  stockings,  father 

darned,  slippers,  dark  waistcoat,  gray  woollen  moruing-gown,  iron-gray 

wig,  shirt-collar  open. 
Sequence.  —  White  trousers,  stockings  and  shoes,  light  vest,  brown  coat, 

white  neckerchief. 
Vivid.  —  Dark  trousers,  blue  coat  buttoned  up,  boots,  black  hat,  gloves. 
Antonio.  — Bhick  smalls  and  stockings,  shoes  with  buckles,  black  vest, 

brown  straight-cut  coat,  stick,  gloves. 
Nina.  — A  handsome  but  plain  white  dress,  bonnet,  etc. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DXJE  on  the  last  date  stamped  "below 


.  APR  1  2  1943 
SEP  3  0  1960 


Form  L-9 

207/1-12, 'sociase) 


I 4201 — MomHje-— 


M75p     Public  ecnd^ 

parlor 
-readings  • 


AA    000  408  092    5 


1^ 


A 


15^..  .  X^P^tL^L^ 


4201 
M75p 


UNIVERSITY  of  CAL1F0UN4A 

AT 

L0«  ANGELAS 

LIBRARY 


